#Duke gave me the poster

[bureau-of-mines]

There are two (alcoholic) wolves inside of you

[changbinniescurlyhair]

𝓐 𝓓𝓾𝓴𝓮'𝓼 𝓢𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓵 - Bang Chan (A Bridgerton Au)

Synopsis. As the respected Duke of Blackwood, Bang Chan is expected to uphold tradition and marry for power. But when he falls for a woman of lower status, he must choose between his duty to society and the love that could destroy both their reputations. Pairing: Bang Chan x f!reader Warnings: Sexual content (Minors DNI), multiple sex scenes, assault (creep grabs reader by arm, but stops at that), implied infertility, verbal abuse(not towards reader), let me know if I'm missing anything... A/N: This was inspired by Simon and Daphne from Bridgerton, so it will be very angsty I hate how much I love you kinda thing. Second part here. Enjoy :) Series Masterlist

~ London, 1813 ~

The carriage rattled as it turned onto Grosvenor Street, the wheels cracking against the cobblestones like distant thunder. You held your breath, your gloved hands folded tightly in your lap, the lace of your gown itching at your wrists. You'd been told London was like nothing else—the seat of elegance, power, and judgment. You were about to be thrown into it like a lamb into a den of wolves.

But you would not be devoured so easily.

The townhouse ahead loomed like a fortress, belonging to your distant aunt—Lady Everly—a widow of considerable wealth and, perhaps more importantly, even more considerable opinions. It was she, albeit reluctantly, who had agreed to sponsor your debut into society.

“It is rare,” she had written, “for one of your… lineage to be presented, but let us hope your face compensates for your birth.”

You hadn’t known whether to be flattered or offended.

The door creaked open, and a footman extended his hand to help you down. The cold London air hit you immediately, its scent a mixture of horse and rain, yet tinged with promise. You glanced up at the rows of townhomes, the polished carriages rolling past, the gentlemen tipping their hats, and the ladies sweeping by in silks and jewels.

You had tried not to dwell too much on what it meant to be sent to live with Lady Everly. Your father’s death had left an unhealable wound, and your mother’s fragile health had only deepened the silence in your life. When she passed, you had no choice but to turn to your aunt—a woman of sharp opinions, just as sharp as her taste in lace and pearls. You hadn’t been sure whether you were nervous or resigned. Afraid, perhaps, of the rigid, unspoken expectations of a life you’d never chosen, but there was something in the air here—something that whispered of new beginnings, of possibilities. Yet, that thought was quickly replaced by a jolt of anxiety. Living under your aunt’s roof would hardly offer you the freedom to breathe.

The maid who had led you up to your room was gone before you could gather your thoughts. You stood still for a moment, taking in the heavy silence of the room. The space was grand, but it felt like a cage—every inch of it designed to make you aware of your place. A four-poster bed dominated the center, draped with thick curtains, and the furniture was an eclectic mix of fine antiques, some gleaming with polish and others weathered with time. The walls, a soft shade of gray, were adorned with tapestries that looked as though they had been passed down through generations.

With a sigh, you turned to your trunk and began unpacking. The familiar act of unfolding your things brought some comfort, even if it was only fleeting. The soft rustle of your dresses and the faint scent of your mother’s lavender sachets in your linen gave you a fleeting sense of home—though you knew it wouldn’t last. You hung your clothes in the armoire, stacking your books neatly by the bedside, and placed a small framed portrait of your family on the dresser.

As you straightened the room, you began to adjust to the silence of the house. The faint murmur of the servants’ voices reached you from downstairs, but the house itself felt cold, as if it held its breath, waiting. The idea of living here, under Lady Everly’s watchful eye, pressed heavily on your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder what this next chapter of your life would look like—and if you were ready to step into it.

“Stand straighter,” Lady Everly sniffed the next morning as she examined you like a hawk eyeing its prey. “And for the love of God, do not smile so freely. You’ll look like a common barmaid.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, resisting the urge to laugh.

The gown she’d selected was beautiful, if suffocating. Pale lavender with delicate silver embroidery, and a neckline that made you feel as though any wrong move might reveal too much. You hated how much you loved it.

That evening was to be your first public appearance: a private ball hosted by the Marchioness of Pembroke, a known gossip and an even more powerful matchmaker. It was said that many a noble match had been sealed beneath the glittering chandeliers of her ballroom—and many a scandal born in the gardens beyond.

Your heart raced as you stepped out of the carriage.

The Marchioness’s estate was an opulent display of grandeur. The ballroom, a cavernous room with walls of gleaming marble and towering windows, shimmered in the light of hundreds of crystal chandeliers. The scent of lilac and rosewater lingered in the air, mixing with the soft sound of harpsichords playing a gentle tune. Guests in their finest attire floated across the polished floor like colorful fish in a pool, laughter and conversation rising and falling like the tide.

You barely had time to adjust to the surroundings before you felt the weight of the expectations placed upon you. Lady Everly had made it clear: this debut was not just a chance for you to step into society. It was your ticket to a good match, to securing your future. You were, after all, a lady of some lineage, even if it was hardly the sort that would make you an obvious choice for the highest-ranking suitors. Your aunt had made sure you understood that, without ever needing to say the words out loud.

A match was the only thing that mattered now. A suitable match. One that would keep you secure, but also elevate your standing. Marriage was not about love in this world—it was about position, influence, and wealth.

As you walked into the room, you caught snippets of conversations—faint whispers of names, of estates, of families that could offer the right alliances. The eyes that met yours were assessing, calculating. You could feel them weighing your every movement, considering whether you were worthy of their attention, of their affections, or—more likely—of their potential as a bride.

You couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever truly belong in this world. Would you be just another pawn in a game of politics and propriety, or could you carve out your own space, your own path? But for now, all you could do was smile and dance, like the others, and hope that somehow, you would find a way to navigate the maze of expectations without losing yourself in the process.

And then everything changed.

He was standing at the top of the stairs, speaking with another gentleman, when you saw him for the first time.

The Duke of Blackwood.

Bang Chan.

You had heard whispers of him long before this night—a war hero, a landowner, a noble of fierce principle and quiet strength. A man too serious, too respected, and far too desirable to ever entertain anyone of your standing.

And yet, as your eyes met his across the crowd, time slowed. He had the kind of presence that stole the air from the room. Broad-shouldered, his frame commanding and solid, he stood like a pillar of strength among the guests. His dark hair, neatly styled and slightly tousled, caught the light, adding a subtle warmth to his otherwise imposing presence. The sharp angles of his jawline and the masculine curve of his nose gave him a striking, almost regal look, while his dimples—though rarely seen—hinted at a softer side beneath the stern exterior. Dressed in black with a silver cravat, he looked every bit the untouchable figure you had heard about. His tailored coat clung to his frame with a precision that seemed to suggest both wealth and power, the kind of man who wasn’t accustomed to being denied.

And yet something in his gaze made your breath catch.

There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, a hint of both calculation and curiosity that struck you more deeply than you expected. His stare was unwavering, assessing you with the same quiet strength he carried. The faintest flicker of recognition passed between you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he saw you, or if you were simply one of the many faces in the crowd.

He held your stare for only a moment, but it was enough to set something ablaze. A heat you hadn’t expected—perhaps not in a man like him, not here, not now. You swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment. What had he seen in you that made him pause? Had you imagined the connection? Or was it real, fleeting as it may have been?

A quiet murmur passed through the room, and though his attention seemed to shift, you were still caught in the aftershock of that fleeting encounter.

Lady Everly tugged your arm. “Come. Do not gawk like a country girl.”

You were introduced to ladies and lords, to other young debutantes with practiced smiles and practiced envy. Among them: Viscount Hwang Hyunjin, tall and dashing with a dangerous grin; Earl Seo Changbin, always glancing over his shoulder; and a quiet, mysterious painter named Han Jisung who said little but whose eyes missed nothing.

But none of them made your chest twist quite like him.

Bang Chan, Duke of Blackwood.

You weren’t introduced. Why would you be? He was well above your station. A friend of the royal family. Practically royalty himself. And you—well, you were merely trying not to be a disappointment.

But later, as you slipped out into the garden for a moment of air, you found him there.

Alone.

Moonlight scattered across the path like scattered silver coins, casting a soft glow over the stone walkway and the hedges that lined the garden. The air was cool, the scent of damp earth and blooming roses filling the space, and the wind stirred the leaves around your feet, making them dance in the gentle breeze. The sounds of the ball faded behind you, leaving only the quiet rustle of nature to fill the night.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stood there, near the fountain, his tall frame leaning casually against the stone, one arm resting on the edge of the structure, his other hand tucked behind his back. His eyes were lifted toward the sky, as if lost in thought, the cool moonlight bathing his face, casting long shadows across his sharp features. His broad shoulders, usually so rigid with authority, seemed to relax in the solitude of the night, and the lines of tension around his jaw softened, if only slightly.

Bang Chan’s presence, though quiet, was overwhelming in its stillness. He looked almost untouchable, as though the very night itself was his to command. His blond hair, slightly tousled from the evening’s events, glowed faintly in the moonlight, giving him an almost ethereal quality, despite his very real, grounded masculinity.

You should have turned back.

You knew it was ill-advised, that you should keep your distance, that any conversation with him could be nothing but a fleeting encounter. After all, he was everything society had told you to avoid—too distant, too strong, too involved in his own world to ever notice someone like you.

But you didn’t turn back.

Something in the air, something in the way he held himself so effortlessly aloof, drew you closer. Without thinking, you stepped forward, the crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound breaking the silence between you. The moment you did, his gaze shifted, catching yours with that same quiet intensity, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though he hadn’t expected you to approach.

He spoke without looking. “You are far too brave to walk out here alone, Miss…?”

You swallowed, trying not to let the warmth spread across your face. “Y/N. Y/N L/N.”

Now he turned, fully. Those dark eyes found yours again, more intense up close. There was something in them that made you feel like you were being studied—not as prey, but as a mystery.

He nodded. “Miss L/N.” A pause. “This is your first season.”

It wasn’t a question. “Is it that obvious?” you asked, attempting a smile, but it faltered as he didn’t return it.

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“Only to those who’ve endured many.” Another pause. “You should be careful.”

You raised your chin, not backing down. “Of the men?”

He stepped closer, his presence drawing you in even as you wanted to take a step back. “Of everyone.”

You felt your pulse quicken, not from fear—but from annoyance. Of course, you thought, he’s the Duke. He must think he knows everything about what’s best for me.

You couldn’t help it. You tilted your head, giving him a pointed look. “I’ll be careful, Your Grace,” you said, your voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. “Thank you for your unsolicited advice. I’m sure I can handle myself.”

His expression didn’t change. It was still unreadable, almost distant. But his gaze lingered on you, as if he was trying to decide whether to say something more or let the silence hang between you.

“I did not mean to offend,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm, almost like a command. “It is not concern,” he added quietly, his eyes searching yours in a way that felt too intimate. “It is a warning.”

A warning? The nerve of him. You felt your lips tighten in irritation, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped.

“Well, Your Grace,” you said, your words sharp and cutting, “It seems your warnings are far too frequent, and your company rather uninviting. Perhaps I would be better off without either.”

His brows furrowed for a moment—just a flicker of something there, but before he could respond, you turned on your heel, your skirt swishing angrily behind you as you made your way back down the garden path.

You could feel his eyes on your back as you made your way back to the ballroom.

I shouldn’t have come out here, you thought, and I should never have let him get under my skin.

But as you walked away, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder: What was it about him that made you want to stay?

~~~~

Dearest readers, The affairs of the ton are rarely dull, but every so often, something occurs that demands our undivided attention—and this, my friends, is one such occasion. Whispers have begun to swirl, and they all seem to center around one figure, whose presence in our society remains as mysterious as the moonlight itself. Miss Y/N L/N. Ah, yes, the young lady who has seemingly appeared from the shadows. Until recently, Miss L/N’s name had passed under the radar of London’s finest—an unremarkable debutante with neither title nor fortune. But suddenly, she is the subject of every conversation, her name on the lips of even the most scandalous members of society. How curious it is, my dear readers, that such a lady has captured the attention of so many. And one must wonder—what exactly has caused this most elusive of figures to captivate the ton? Could it be her wit? Her charm? Or is it something more? Though she has neither a grand lineage nor a fortune to boast of, there is something undeniably intriguing about her—a quiet beauty, an unassuming demeanor, and a manner that seems to disarm even the most jaded among us. Perhaps there is more to Miss L/N than meets the eye—though one can hardly say for certain. Few details of her background have surfaced, and even fewer are willing to speak of her family. There are no whispers of an illustrious past, no tales of a notable heritage. The more I inquire, the less I learn. It is almost as if she appeared in London from thin air, with no explanation, no history. Is it possible that Miss L/N is hiding a secret? Perhaps a family connection, a legacy that she wishes to keep under wraps? Or could she, simply, be more than she appears—someone who, despite her humble origins, holds the power to captivate the hearts of the most powerful men in London? The ton may never know the truth. But mark my words, readers: this is a story that will only grow more intriguing as it unfolds. Yours Truly, Lady Whistledown

You scoffed, tossing the paper onto your bed, unable to believe that anyone would actually read such nonsense.

The whispers from last night’s ball still buzzed through Mayfair’s parlors like a swarm of bees. Yet, as you sat by the window of Lady Everly’s townhouse, watching the carriages bustle past, only one whisper lingered in your mind.

The Duke of Blackwood.

You tried not to think of the way his eyes had met yours in the garden—the way your name had sounded on his lips, rich and low and entirely too memorable. It irritated you how easily it had slipped from him, how effortlessly he’d made it sound like a command, like a privilege to hear him say it. As if he had any right to make your name linger in his voice, to make you feel… something.

But even as Lady Everly chattered about gowns and gloves, you felt him—still there in your mind, like a song stuck between heartbeats.

"Miss L/N," Lady Everly snapped, breaking you from your reverie. Her voice was sharp, filled with the unmistakable tone of someone accustomed to having their opinions heard. "What in the world have you gotten yourself into now?"

She waved the latest edition of Lady Whistledown's Society Papers in front of you, her eyes practically spitting fire. "I warned you about making waves in this society, but to have your name plastered across this ridiculous column is beyond me!"

You glanced at the paper she was holding up with a sense of resignation. There it was, as bold as ever—your name, tied to the whispers of the ton in a way that felt dangerous. Lady Everly’s eyes were wide with fury.

"You’ve gone and caught the eye of Lady Whistledown herself now," she continued, pacing the floor in exasperation. "Do you have any idea what this will mean for your reputation? The gossip, the rumors—there's no going back now!"

You simply stared at her, heart pounding in your chest. What had you done to deserve such a fate? It seemed like one moment, you were a quiet debutante, unnoticed and unremarkable, and the next, you were the subject of the most scandalous publication in London.

"Do you understand," Lady Everly hissed, her face growing even redder, "the kinds of women who make it into this rag? And now, you—you, of all people—are right there alongside them!"

Her words stung, but it was the image of his gaze—Bang Chan's irritating gaze—that lingered, more potent than any reprimand. And despite Lady Everly’s tirade, you couldn’t help but wonder: why was he looking at you like that?

“You’ve been cooped up for far too long, Miss L/N,” Lady Everly declared a few days later, her tone as sharp as ever as she tugged you away from the window. “I’ve had enough of your moping. We’re going to Hyde Park for a proper walk, and you will join me—whether you like it or not.”

Before you could protest, she was already ordering the maids to gather your things, pushing you out the door with no more room for argument. You had barely managed to straighten your gown before she pulled you into the carriage, the heavy scent of London’s smog mingling with the crisp morning air.

As you arrived in Hyde Park, the green space before you was bustling with activity—gentlemen strolling with their hats tipped low, ladies in fine silks and parasols, and children running beneath the trees. It seemed like a picturesque scene, one Lady Everly was intent on turning into a proper outing for you.

“Keep up now, Miss L/N,” Lady Everly commanded as she led the way, her maids following in tow like silent shadows. “We’ll make the rounds. You need to be seen. Let’s not waste such a fine opportunity.”

You could only nod as she walked briskly, eyes scanning the crowds as if trying to find the next suitor who might suit her tastes for you. But you had no intention of making the day enjoyable. In fact, you were already contemplating how soon you could escape to the nearest bench and pretend to enjoy the fresh air.

But Lady Everly, in her eternal pursuit of match-making, had other plans. As you rounded a corner of the path, she spotted Mr. Allingham, a middle aged man who had been lingering around her estate for the past week with increasing persistence.

“There!” Lady Everly exclaimed, her voice suddenly bright with approval. “Mr. Allingham. Now, Miss L/N, be a good girl and walk with him. You’ve been so quiet lately, and I’m sure a pleasant chat will help.”

Before you could protest, she was already waving Mr. Allingham over, her voice too loud for comfort. “Mr. Allingham, you must join us! Miss L/N would love to accompany you on this lovely walk.”

You couldn’t help the sigh that escaped your lips. You’d known this moment would come, but it didn’t make it any easier. Mr. Allingham approached, his smile wide and eager, and your heart sank. You managed a small nod in greeting as Lady Everly pushed you into his company.

“Miss L/N,” he said with a bow, his voice warm and courteous. “I would be honored to have your company.”

You offered him a smile, though it felt forced. “Of course, Mr. Allingham.”

As you walked side by side, you couldn’t help but notice the way he leaned just a little too close, his voice too eager as he spoke of matters that didn’t interest you in the slightest. But it wasn’t Mr. Allingham that caught your attention. No, it was the sudden, unmistakable presence that you felt from a few paces away.

A group of young women appeared, all fluttering fans and light chatter, moving as if by instinct toward the tall, commanding figure of Bang Chan. His profile was impossible to miss—handsome in a way that stopped you mid-breath. And yet, as the women surrounded him, laughing and attempting to charm, he seemed to barely notice them. His gaze, however, didn’t miss you.

There, just a glance in your direction. Long enough for you to feel it—a weight. A flicker of something in his eyes that sent a jolt of unexpected heat through you.

You turned away quickly, flustered, but there was no mistaking the tension in the air. The women around him were still eager to gain his favor, all fluttering like moths, but he didn’t seem to pay them any mind. His eyes lingered only on you, sharp and unreadable.

“Are you quite well, Miss L/N?” Mr. Allingham’s voice broke your focus, though you were hardly aware of his words.

You barely nodded, the air thick with confusion and curiosity. Lady Everly, sensing the shift, continued her chatter with Mr. Allingham, oblivious to the unspoken pull between you and the Duke of Blackwood. But you couldn’t ignore it. His gaze had left a mark, one you didn’t quite understand.

And as Mr. Allingham continued talking, you couldn’t shake the thought—Bang Chan’s eyes were still on you, even as the group of girls continued their desperate attempts at his attention.

~ Lady Bridgerton’s Estate, Edge of London ~

Masquerades were a curious thing.

A room full of familiar strangers—faces hidden behind velvet and lace, identities obscured by whispers and wine. The chandeliers dripped crystal and golden light, casting shadows that danced just as boldly as the guests. Music floated from the quartet tucked in the corner, weaving through laughter, secrets, and the occasional gasp.

You stood at the edge of the ballroom, fingers lightly brushing the edge of your mask. Deep emerald silk matched the gown Lady Everly had chosen for you, the color making your eyes shine just enough to draw more glances than you knew what to do with.

You shouldn’t have felt so exposed in disguise. And yet, you did.

Every moment stretched thin with anticipation—because you hadn’t seen him.

Not yet.

Not since Hyde Park.

Not since that moment where he’d left the air thick with something unspoken.

You tried to tell yourself it was foolish to wonder whether the Duke of Blackwood would attend the Masquerades. He was known for avoiding such things unless duty demanded it.

So what would bring him here?

You turned just as the music swelled again, the waltz starting anew—and the crowd parted just slightly as he entered.

You knew it was him before you even saw his face.

His presence moved through the room like a shift in the tide. The whisper of fabric, the soft hush of intrigue. He wore a black mask trimmed in gold, tailored to the shape of his cheekbones. His dark coat, crisp and regal, was accented with the Blackwood family crest near his heart.

Bang Chan.

Your heart thudded—then picked up again with a traitorous rhythm.

He didn’t look at you right away. He greeted a few nobles with brief nods, exchanged a few words with Lord Lee, who stood beside a tall, ethereal lady in lavender. There was no tension between them—only familiarity, perhaps even camaraderie. They were men who had fought the same battles and learned not to draw blood unless it truly mattered.

And then his gaze shifted—and found you.

From across the room.

You froze.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. But for a few seconds, you were the only one he saw. The only one he looked at like that—like something he wasn’t supposed to want.

But wanted anyway.

You looked away first. Barely.

“Is it true?” a voice purred beside you. “That you’ve already captured the attention of the Duke?”

You turned to find Lady Marianne, a fluttering bird of a woman with a voice like sugar and sarcasm. Her mask was more feather than fabric, and her lips curved with the promise of gossip.

“I don’t believe I’ve captured anything,” you replied coolly.

“Oh, my darling, the ton is already spinning tales. He hasn’t danced in years. Not once. Not since his father passed.” Her eyes gleamed. “But I’ve heard he might tonight.”

You sipped your wine to avoid answering.

Because the idea was too dangerous. And too tempting.

The music swirled around the grand ballroom, a lively waltz that seemed to carry everyone on a cloud of elegance. The chandeliers overhead sparkled like a constellation, casting golden light across the sea of well-dressed couples twirling and laughing, lost in the rhythm of the night.

You, however, felt the weight of every step as you moved across the floor.

Mr. Allingham, middle-aged with graying hair and a slightly paunchy figure, was your latest (and only) partner of the night. His hand was firm—almost too firm—against the small of your back, his other hand clasped with yours in a way that felt more like an obligation than a dance. He guided you through the movements with a practiced, but clumsy, efficiency. His face, a few years past its prime, was lined with wrinkles that matched the arrogance in his smile. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance—no handsomeness, no charm. Only the stiffened air of a man who believed his age and wealth gave him every right to hold you in his arms.

"I must say, Miss L/N," he said, his voice low and syrupy as he led you through the steps, "you dance exquisitely. Surely, you’ve been taught by the finest instructors. Your grace could be the talk of society."

You forced a smile, trying not to let the exhaustion seep into your expression. "You flatter me, Mr. Allingham. But I assure you, I’m only a humble debutante."

He laughed, a sound that didn’t reach his eyes, too loud to be genuine. "Humble? Ah, Miss L/N, you are being modest. With your beauty and pedigree, I’d imagine many would beg for a dance with you."

You nodded along, not trusting yourself to speak. His words felt like a performance, as if he had rehearsed them countless times before, in hopes of winning the approval of women who no longer saw him as desirable.

But the truth was, Mr. Allingham wasn’t attractive. Not in the way the young men in the ballroom were—there was no fire in his eyes, no magnetic pull in his presence. He was simply… there, an aging gentleman with an unremarkable face and a boastful air.

“Surely there are many men vying for your attention in London,” he continued, spinning you once with a flourish, though you barely noticed. His grip on you was too tight, his fingers pressing into your waist with possessiveness you hadn’t asked for. “But I, of course, see more than just your beauty. I see your potential, Miss L/N. A woman like you—well, a match with someone like me would be most advantageous.”

You couldn’t help but bite your lip, the words sticking in your throat as he maneuvered you with stiff precision. You hated this. The dance, the way he saw you as nothing more than a prize to be claimed. Every moment you spent in his arms felt like you were a puppet on strings, following the motions for the sake of keeping up appearances.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Allingham,” you said, your voice quieter now, a faint hint of unease creeping into your tone.

“Ah, Miss L/N, let me not be coy. I’m a man of some influence, and you, with your grace and lineage, would make a fine match for me,” he said, his eyes gleaming in a way that made you feel small, insignificant. “Together, we could—”

Before he could finish, the waltz ended, and you nearly sighed in relief. The music slowed to a stop, but Mr. Allingham’s grip lingered a moment too long, his hand still holding yours with an unsettling firmness.

“Shall we talk after the dance?” he suggested, his voice almost too intimate as his gaze lingered a little too long on your lips.

You managed a tight smile. “Perhaps,” you said quickly, stepping back, eager to break free.

But Mr. Allingham, clearly unwilling to let go, held onto your hand for just a fraction longer. His fingers brushed your wrist, and you felt a chill run down your spine. The feeling was not one of desire, but of something far more predatory.

You barely managed to keep the disgust from your face as you stepped away, offering a polite nod. “I think I’ll get some air,” you murmured, desperate for the opportunity to escape the suffocating air of the ballroom.

As Mr. Allingham moved off, you exhaled, the weight of the moment lifting from your chest, but only slightly. He had left you with a taste of something you didn’t want—his intention clear in his eyes and his hands. And yet, there was no escaping the fact that you were just another name on his list, another young lady to be courted, another prize to be won.

With a forced smile, you made your way toward the garden, hoping for a breath of fresh air to clear your thoughts.

~ The Bridgerton Gardens, just past midnight ~

The night air was cool against your flushed cheeks, a welcome contrast to the heat and music still pulsing from the ballroom behind you. Laughter and strings spilled faintly through the open terrace doors, but you had needed a moment—just a breath away from the swirling gowns, clinking glasses, and the dizzying weight of too many eyes. You weren’t supposed to be out here—not alone, and certainly not during the height of the evening. But the mask had pressed too tightly to your skin, and the air inside had grown too thick.

Your slippers crunched softly against the gravel as you wandered deeper into the garden, the maze of hedges and blooming lavender guiding you further into the shadows, where moonlight brushed the petals and the night whispered its quiet secrets.

Something had drawn you out here. Or perhaps… someone.

The wind was gentle, the sky shimmered with stars, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.

You turned a corner—and stopped.

There, in the clearing beneath the marble gazebo, was a figure.

Mr. Allingham.

You hadn’t expected him here. The night had already worn on, and you hadn’t seen him in the ballroom for some time. But there he was, standing by the gazebo, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Something about his posture made the air feel thick—like he was waiting for something, or someone.

You froze, unsure whether to retreat or approach.

“Miss L/N,” he called, voice low and silky, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “You’ve been hiding from me.”

You swallowed, stepping back instinctively. “Mr. Allingham, I—I was just walking. I shouldn’t be out here alone.”

He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. “Nonsense. The night is still young, and you deserve to enjoy it. After all, you’ve been far too quiet at the ball, too distant. A man’s attention is a rare thing.”

You felt a chill run through you. Something was off about his tone, the way his eyes lingered on you like a predator watching its prey.

“I think it’s time for you to come with me,” he said, his voice thick with unspoken intentions.

You stepped back, but he moved forward with surprising speed, blocking your path. “Mr. Allingham, please—” you started, trying to keep your voice steady.

But he ignored you, his hands reaching for your arm, grabbing you far too tightly. “Don’t play coy with me, Miss L/N. I know you’ve felt the same pull I have. You can’t pretend you don’t want this.”

Your heart raced as you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, dragging you closer. His breath was hot against your neck, his words like poison in the night. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss L/N. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I want.”

In that moment, the weight of his touch felt suffocating, like the air was being stolen from your lungs.

“Let go of me!” you managed to gasp, your voice shaky but desperate.

He only laughed softly, low and mocking. “You’ll get used to it, soon enough.”

Just as his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, something—someone—shifted in the darkness.

Without warning, a shadow moved swiftly toward you, and Mr. Allingham’s hand was yanked away. A voice, low and commanding, cut through the tension.

“Touch her again,” the voice warned, “and I will make you regret it.”

You barely had time to turn before you saw him—Bang Chan, standing there, without his mask, a silent force. His presence alone made the air crackle with energy, a stark contrast to the cold, suffocating atmosphere Mr. Allingham had created.

Mr. Allingham’s expression shifted, eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Bang Chan. “And who might you be?” he sneered.

“Someone who knows how to protect a lady,” Bang Chan replied coldly. His eyes were locked on Mr. Allingham with a look that could freeze the blood in your veins. He was calm, collected, but the threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Do you think you can intimidate me?” Mr. Allingham scoffed, stepping back. “You’re just another lord playing at heroism. She’s mine now.”

Bang Chan took a step forward, his posture unwavering. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

The tension between them was palpable, a silent battle of wills that seemed to stretch on forever. You could feel the panic rising in your chest, but Bang Chan remained steady, unyielding. He moved between you and Mr. Allingham, an immovable shield.

“You don’t want to test me, Mr. Allingham,” Bang Chan said, his voice laced with cold steel. “You’re out of your depth.”

For a long moment, Mr. Allingham stood still, his gaze flickering between you and the Duke, his smirk slowly fading. With one last, threatening glance, he turned and stalked off into the shadows, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

You were left there, breathless, heart pounding. Bang Chan didn’t immediately move. His presence was still a quiet force, the weight of his protection lingering in the air between you.

You blinked, still shaken by the suddenness of it all. “Your Grace… I—”

He turned to you, his expression softening, though there was still a storm in his eyes. “Are you all right, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice suddenly far less commanding. The intensity was replaced with concern, and for a moment, you could almost forget he was the Duke of Blackwood.

“I… yes, I’m fine.” Your voice trembled slightly, but you managed to steady yourself. “Thank you.”

He nodded but didn’t step away. Instead, he stood there, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “You shouldn’t have to deal with men like him, Miss L/N”

You swallowed, unable to find the right words. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted any of it.”

“I know,” he said softly, stepping even closer, his presence surrounding you. “And yet… it’s the game we play, isn’t it?”

His words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding. The pressure of the ballroom, of being the center of attention, was nothing compared to the quiet storm that was brewing between you two.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to avoid them.”

Bang Chan tilted his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. Not if you have someone else to protect you.”

You blinked, unsure of what he meant, but his next words made it clear.

“What if we made it known? That we’re—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "That we’re courting, for now, at least. The rumors will spread, and the unwanted attention will cease. You won’t have to worry about men like Mr. Allingham, and I won’t have to deal with anxious mothers trying to marry off their daughters to me.”

You stared at him, your heart skipping a beat. “Are you suggesting we pretend to be courting?”

His gaze never wavered. “Yes. Let's make it clear that there’s something between us. The ton will believe it. And no one will dare approach either of us."

The idea seemed absurd, and yet, as you looked at him—strong, resolute, unwavering—you realized it might be the best solution to the chaos that had been your life for the past few days.

“And what about when the charade is over?” you asked softly, the weight of the situation slowly sinking in.

Chan stepped even closer, his voice low, as if sharing a secret meant only for you. “Then we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

You nodded, heart thumping, fear coursing through your veins. “Very well."

He nodded. “Then let’s go back inside,” he said. “And when we do, let them all think what they will."

And with that, the two of you walked back toward the ballroom, the weight of the moment between you heavy with the unspoken promise of what was to come.

As you stepped back into the ballroom, your heart thumped in your chest, the night’s events still swirling around you. Chan stood beside you, his presence unwavering and solid. You were no longer the woman slipping unnoticed through the crowd; now, you were walking into the very heart of the ton, side by side with the Duke of Blackwood.

The moment you entered, the music seemed to quiet just a fraction, the eyes of every guest turning toward you. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like waves against a ship’s hull, as the people took in the unexpected pairing of you and Chan, entering the room as if you belonged together, as if the rumors had already started.

Your aunt was the first to spot you, her eyes widening in shock as she saw you walking proudly beside the Duke. Her gaze flicked between you and Chan, her mouth opening in protest before she quickly closed it again. You could almost hear her thoughts: What is she doing? The idea that you would enter the ballroom arm-in-arm with the most sought-after bachelor in London was unthinkable in her world of carefully crafted appearances.

Chan leaned in slightly, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”

A mischievous grin tugged at your lips, and before you could answer, he swept you into the middle of the dance floor, leading you into the waltz with a grace that left no room for doubt. The music swelled around you, and the crowd parted, watching in stunned silence as you and Chan danced effortlessly. His hand rested at the small of your back, the other holding yours, guiding you across the floor with a confidence that was contagious.

All around you, the ton whispered. Eyes darted, conversations stilled, and those who had once avoided your gaze now looked upon you with a mixture of curiosity and envy. You could feel the weight of their gaze, but it was as though it didn’t matter anymore. You were with Chan, and for once, you didn’t feel like a subject of their gossip. You felt like you were the one in control.

Your aunt’s expression was a mixture of shock and disbelief, but she said nothing. She simply watched, frozen in place as the Duke spun you effortlessly around the floor. The music was a blur of violins and strings, but you could feel the rhythm of it in your chest, matching the beat of your heart. It was as if, for that moment, time slowed, and the world outside of the ballroom no longer existed.

Whispers of your dance together spread quickly through the room. “Did you see that?” “Is Miss L/N courting the Duke?” “I heard they were in the garden together.” The whispers only grew louder as the waltz continued, and the energy between you and Bang Chan seemed to captivate the entire room.

As the dance came to an end, Chan slowed to a graceful stop, bowing deeply before you. The crowd watched, rapt, waiting for your next move. But you were not about to give them anything more. You smiled, curtseyed gracefully, and then, as though nothing had changed, you walked away from the dance floor, Bang Chan at your side.

The two of you made your way back to the sidelines, where the whispers didn’t stop, but the attention had shifted. The night had taken a turn that no one expected—and not just for you, but for Chan too. The women who had been fluttering around him earlier had disappeared, suddenly uninterested. The ton had noticed that you, of all people, had caught the Duke’s attention.

As you stood near the wall, catching your breath, you felt his gaze on you, warm and steady. There was a quiet understanding between you now, something unspoken but deeply felt.

“You’ve made quite the impression tonight,” he said softly, his voice carrying just enough for you to hear.

You glanced up at him, your breath still slightly uneven. “So have you.”

Before you could say another word, the night came to a close, and the crowd slowly began to disperse, but the rumors were already flying. The gossip would follow you, for better or worse.

The next morning, as you sipped your tea in the quiet of your sitting room, the previous night’s whirlwind of events still lingered in the air. But rather than the sting of your aunt’s disapproval, you now found her reaction a curious one. She had been surprised, certainly, but her reaction wasn’t one of anger. Instead, there had been something almost… triumphant in her eyes.

After all, the Duke of Blackwood, of all people, had danced with you in front of the entire ton. The attention, the whispers—they would only serve to elevate your status, and with it, the possibility of a marriage proposal. Your aunt, ever calculating, had already begun to spin her plans.

Her voice echoed through your mind: “Do you realize what this means? You have caught the Duke’s eye, my dear. It’s all but settled now. Why, by the end of the season, you’ll be secured!”

She’d practically danced around the room, a giddy energy overtaking her, as she spoke of betrothal announcements and all the riches that would come with such an alliance. She was already picturing the lavish wedding, the high society approval, the match made in heaven. And in the midst of it all, you had felt nothing but exhaustion, the weight of her hopes hanging heavily on your shoulders.

The door to your sitting room opened, pulling you from your thoughts, and the maid entered, holding the morning papers in her hands. She passed you The London Gazette, and your fingers hesitated over the paper. You knew exactly what you would find inside.

You felt a flutter of anticipation in your chest as you turned to the gossip column. It took only a moment before you found the familiar lines of ink that made your heart race:

Dearest Readers, It seems that our fair city is never short of intrigue, and last night’s ball was no exception. As the glittering lights of the ballroom shone down upon the ton, one particular event eclipsed all others—a most curious and unexpected pairing. Yes, dear readers, the whispers have started, and they all lead to one singular, undeniable conclusion. It was none other than Miss Y/N L/N and the Duke of Blackwood. The two, long known to move in very different circles, were seen together last evening in what can only be described as a most startling display of partnership. For the first time in many years, the Duke, who has long kept his affections under lock and key, was seen dancing with none other than the unassuming Miss L/N, whose presence in society has, until now, been rather discreet. It began innocuously enough, a quiet entrance to the ballroom—a brief moment of hesitation, and then, a dance. What happened next sent ripples through the crowd, as the Duke of Blackwood, that most eligible of bachelors, led Miss L/N in a waltz so perfectly in sync that one might have thought they had practiced together for years. But what is most curious, dear readers, is not the dance itself—though one must admit it was a performance worthy of any royal court—but the aftermath. As the evening wore on, it became clear that the whispers were not mere gossip. The Duke and Miss L/N were no longer just two figures in the background; they were now the center of every conversation in the room.

Could it be that the Duke has finally found a match worthy of his affections? Has Miss L/N, with her quiet grace and her lack of fortune, captured the heart of the most sought-after gentleman in London? Or is this, perhaps, just another moment of fleeting fancy—a brief dalliance before the Duke returns to the endless parade of women who clamour for his attention? But there is one more thing that cannot be ignored. The sudden alliance between the Duke and Miss L/N is not merely a social curiosity—it is a strategic move. The Ton, dear readers, has long been a place of whispers and power plays. And what better way for both Miss L/N and the Duke to shield themselves from unwanted attention than by presenting themselves as an item? For Miss L/N, this means less pressure from the eager suitors who have been circling her like vultures. After all, if she is seen with the Duke, what other man would dare make his advances known? And for the Duke, this offer of courtship provides a much-needed respite from the insistent young ladies who have been at his heels all season. But let us not be fooled into thinking this is a mere charade. No, dear readers, there is more at play here. The Duke and Miss L/N may have agreed to pretend to court for now, but the truth of their intentions may soon become far clearer. One cannot simply play at courtship without stirring the heart. And who can say whether the gentle stirrings of affection have not already taken root in both of them? For the Duke’s eyes, when they lingered upon Miss L/N, spoke volumes—volumes that words cannot capture. The question remains, though: What will this do to the dynamics of London society? How will this “pretended” courtship affect the rest of the Ton? Will others begin to follow suit, creating a new wave of alliances and whispers, or will the Duke and Miss L/N’s calculated performance bring them closer than either might have anticipated?

Of course, there is still much to be seen. For now, dear readers, we can only watch as the Duke and Miss L/N move through the social season with eyes upon them—eyes that will undoubtedly follow their every step. After all, where there is smoke, there is often fire, and what began as an innocent dance may very well become the talk of London. Time will tell. But one thing is certain: Miss L/N’s place in the Ton is now assured, and whether it is by design or by fate, the Duke of Blackwood has made her the center of attention. Until next time, dear readers, keep your eyes open, and your secrets closer. For the game is never over, and the whispers are always louder than you think. Yours Truly, Lady Whistledown

~ The Duke of Blackwood’s London Residence ~

The night had fallen silent as Bang Chan wandered through the grand halls of his estate, the echo of the music from the ballroom still faintly drifting in the air. He had left the company of his guests behind, seeking solace in the solitude of his thoughts. The decision to enter into this charade with Miss L/N weighed heavily on his mind.

He leaned against the cold marble pillar, staring into the darkness of the garden beyond the windows, his fingers tightening on the glass as he watched the moonlight flicker over the flowers. For a moment, everything felt still. But beneath that stillness, a storm churned within him.

Why had he agreed to this?

A flash of memory broke through the calm—a memory he had tried, for years, to bury deep inside him.

He was a boy again, no older than eight or nine, standing in the cold, dimly lit hallway of his childhood home. His mother’s voice echoed from the parlor, soft and broken, as she pleaded with his father to stop. Bang Chan’s young hands trembled against the walls, hearing the way his father’s sharp words cut through the silence, laced with cruelty.

His father’s voice had always been harsh, a constant presence of cold command in their household. But it was his mother who suffered most under the weight of that presence. He’d watched her face fall with each passing day, her joy slowly crushed beneath his father’s disregard, her every attempt at kindness met with indifference or disdain. He had seen her try, over and over, to make things work—always failing. And Bang Chan, as a child, had been helpless to stop it.

His mother had loved him with a devotion so pure, so unshakable, but she had never received the same in return. Not from his father, at least. He had been too young to understand the complexities of love then, but he had felt the distance growing between his parents. His father’s coldness had infected him, too, a fear of vulnerability, of attachment.

Now, as he stood there in the quiet of his empty estate, the ghosts of his past whispered in the back of his mind. Could he ever truly allow himself to love again? Could he even allow someone to love him without the fear of turning into his father?

Bang Chan ran a hand through his hair, his heart heavy with doubt.

When he had agreed to this “courtship” with Miss L/N—an arrangement, at first, to ward off the clamor of women who sought his favor—he had believed it would be simple. A mere ruse to protect both their reputations, a mutual understanding that neither would be asked to endure the torment of unwanted attention. But as time passed, and as he danced with her, spoke with her, and shared moments that were far more genuine than he had anticipated, he realized he was tangled in something far more complicated than he had ever bargained for.

His heart thundered against his chest, a beat that felt too loud in the silence of the night.

Could he pretend long enough to keep the ton at bay? Or would this all spiral into something he couldn’t control—something he wasn’t ready for?

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, a harsh reminder of the man he had sworn never to become.

"You are nothing but a tool, a means to an end. Don't think for a moment you have the luxury of choice. Love does not exist, only duty."

The bitterness of those words gnawed at his soul. Duty. It was always duty that had come before everything else. Duty to the title. Duty to the estate. Duty to the family. But Bang Chan knew better than anyone that duty had a cold, unforgiving face.

His mother had borne the brunt of that, and Bang Chan couldn’t bring himself to repeat that cycle. He couldn't imagine a life where he stood at the altar, pledging vows he didn’t believe in, or raising children under the same harsh, sterile conditions that had suffocated him. What if he couldn’t love them the way they deserved? What if he became the very thing he had feared growing up?

His gaze shifted toward the moonlit garden once more, the stillness of the night reflecting the turmoil within him. He could feel the weight of the world pushing down on his shoulders, the weight of legacy and expectation. The title, the power—it all meant little when compared to the suffocating fear that seemed to rise in his chest every time he thought about marriage, about children.

And yet, here he was, pretending. Pretending for the sake of Miss L/N’s reputation, for the sake of his own. He was doing it to escape the relentless pursuit of women, to avoid the prying eyes of the ton—but somewhere, deep down, he knew it was more than that. His eyes had lingered on her more than he cared to admit. He had seen something in her—a softness, a quiet strength—that had drawn him in against his will.

And now, he was caught in a web of his own making.

“Why did I get myself involved in this?” he murmured to the empty room.

Bang Chan closed his eyes, trying to push away the image of his father’s cruel face, the memory of his mother’s resigned smile.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up this pretense. But there was one thing he did know: he couldn’t let himself get too close. Not to her. Not to anyone. Not until he figured out how to heal the wounds that ran deeper than he’d ever let anyone see.

But, for now, he would continue the charade. And with each passing moment, he would try to ignore the ache in his chest—the one that told him, maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to care more than he had planned.

~The Featherington Estate~

The grand ballroom was alive with the sound of music and laughter, the shimmering chandeliers casting their golden glow over the sea of noble faces. But amidst the hustle and bustle of conversation, one sight commanded the attention of everyone present.

You, standing with Chan—the Duke of Blackwood—both of you perfectly poised in the midst of the dance floor, twirling gracefully in time with the orchestra’s melody. The entire ton seemed to hold its breath, eyes fixed on the two of you, gossip swirling like an invisible current around the room.

You could feel their eyes on you, some curious, some envious, others intrigued. The whispers were unmistakable. The newly-declared courtship between you and the Duke was the topic of every conversation, and no one seemed to be able to stop staring at the pair of you.

“Miss L/N, Your Grace,” someone murmured as you passed by, their voices full of speculation.

As the dance ended and you stepped away from Chan, your eyes met his briefly. There was a flicker of something unspoken between you, but it was immediately masked as you both smiled, ever the perfect couple. You had to, for the sake of appearances.

You made your way towards the edge of the ballroom, seeking a breath of fresh air from the scrutiny. But before you could take your first step, Chan was at your side, his presence looming behind you as always. His hand was placed just at your elbow, an unmistakable gesture meant to keep the ruse alive.

“Miss L/N,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear it amidst the noise. “Shall we continue the charade?”

You nodded, a polite smile on your lips as you turned toward him. “I suppose we must,” you said, trying to ignore the feeling of frustration bubbling within. "But Your Grace, perhaps you should send flowers to my room tomorrow. And—"

"And?" Chan raised an eyebrow, his voice tinged with something between amusement and hesitation.

"Perhaps take a walk with me tomorrow morning, just for a moment," you added, keeping your tone light, though you were still conscious of the eyes that followed your every move. "You know, for appearances."

Chan's jaw tightened slightly, his expression carefully neutral, but the flicker of frustration in his eyes was unmistakable. “You want me to keep up this farce even when no one’s watching?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I think we have no choice,” you said softly, feeling the weight of all those watching you, waiting for any slip-up. “For both of us.”

He exhaled sharply but gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. I’ll send the flowers and walk with you tomorrow. But only because we must.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound genuine but tinged with irony. “Of course. We’ll keep up appearances.”

“Indeed,” Chan said with a curt nod. “Just… don’t expect more from me than what’s necessary. We both have our reasons for this.”

The two of you exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between you, though the frustration you both felt at this situation lingered like an unsaid word in the air.

But when you looked around, you saw the gazes of the ton following your every move. The whispers, the speculation, the scrutiny—it was all part of the game now, and there was no turning back.

You exchanged a polite smile with him, and the mask of the perfect, courting couple remained firmly in place. The moment the gaze of others turned away, however, the mask would fall, and the reality of your private frustration would return.

For now, though, you both played your parts. Because it was expected.

But in the quiet moments when no one was looking, neither of you would forget the uneasy truce you’d struck—one based on necessity, not affection.

The next morning, you found yourself facing the daunting task of keeping up appearances. The flowers from Chan had arrived, their fragrance filling the entire drawing room. Your aunt, positively beaming, hovered nearby as the bouquets were placed carefully in vases. Her eyes sparkled with delight, clearly thrilled at the gesture.

“You see, Y/N,” she said, clasping her hands together, “this is exactly what you need. A man of his stature, sending flowers… This could be the beginning of something wonderful. You mustn’t squander this opportunity.”

You bit your lip, nodding in agreement, but your mind was far from the delight of your aunt. You had already arranged a meeting with Chan in the park to continue the charade. He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to accompany you, and the two of you had been keeping up the act of a budding courtship for the ton’s sake.

Later that afternoon, your aunt insisted on accompanying you as a chaperone, of course, to ensure nothing untoward occurred during your “walk.” The sun was just beginning to dip low in the sky, casting the park in a warm, golden light. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and you could feel the stares of onlookers as you walked side by side, with your aunt keeping a careful distance behind you.

The laughter and chatter of other parkgoers faded into the background, but the tense silence between you and Chan was impossible to ignore.

He kept his hands folded behind his back, his jaw tight, while you walked just slightly ahead of him, your steps deliberate, as though the entire world was watching.

“We’re doing this because we have to, not because we want to,” you muttered, glancing over at him, careful to ensure your aunt couldn’t hear.

Chan’s eyes flicked to yours, his expression unreadable for a moment, before his gaze shifted back to the path ahead. His brow furrowed, as though he were contemplating something more than the walk. He didn’t speak, choosing instead to let the silence linger, his tension palpable.

“Keep up the appearance,” he finally said in a low voice, “and try not to make it so obvious you’re annoyed with me.”

You snorted softly, not bothering to hide the irritation in your tone. “Oh, I’m sure they already know. I don’t exactly look thrilled to be walking with the Duke of Blackwood, do I?”

The subtle sound of a giggle echoed from a nearby group of young women, and you couldn’t help but glance at them. Their eyes narrowed as they watched the two of you—barely a step apart but worlds apart in spirit. They were too polite to stare outright, but the judgment was palpable. You bit back a sigh and tried to focus on the walk ahead, resisting the urge to glance back at your aunt, who was smiling serenely as if everything were perfectly normal.

“You should be flattered,” you added, “The ton’s been eating up our every move.”

Chan glanced sideways at you, the tension in his posture still unmistakable. “Flattered? Hardly. I’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Well,” you said with a touch of sarcasm, “It’s a good thing we’re not actually courting then, isn’t it?”

That earned a sharp glance from him. “You can stop pretending, Miss L/N,” he muttered under his breath. “I think everyone already knows the truth. We’re merely playing a part.”

You couldn’t argue with that. The act you both were putting on was becoming more difficult to sustain, but the alternative was worse. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were starting to wonder how long this charade would last—how long you’d both be able to tolerate it.

At that moment, a carriage rolled by, the occupants inside staring curiously at the two of you as they passed. You couldn’t help but notice the disapproving glares of the young women, whispering amongst themselves about the Duke of Blackwood’s recent attention to someone of your status. Their looks were loaded with silent judgment, their jealousy unmistakable.

“They’re watching us,” you said under your breath.

“You don’t have to remind me,” Chan responded with a sharp sigh.

Your aunt, who had been walking a few paces behind, chose that exact moment to speak up, her voice sugary sweet. “What a lovely sight you two make. The whole park must be admiring your companionship.”

You swallowed your frustration, plastering a smile on your face. “Yes, Aunt. How fortunate we are to be the center of attention.”

Another few moments of silence passed before you spoke again, your voice softer, more contemplative. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Chan. This—” you gestured between the two of you, “—is exhausting.”

“I’m not exactly thrilled either, Miss L/N,” he responded, his tone tight, though not entirely unkind. “But if we stop now, we’ll only give the ton more ammunition to gossip about.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the situation. “I know. I know,” you muttered, frustration creeping into your voice. “But how long do we have to keep this up?”

He glanced at you, his expression conflicted. “As long as it takes, I suppose.”

You looked away, your frustration turning into something deeper, something complicated. There was no easy way out of this, no graceful way to exit.

And as your aunt continued to gush about the seemingly perfect image you were presenting, you couldn’t help but feel trapped. Would you ever be able to escape this? Would you ever find a way out of the role you’d been forced into?

~Lady Everly Fairchild's London Estate~

From the moment he arrived at your aunt's estate for the formal dinner, Chan didn’t look away from you.

Not even once.

Not during the formal greetings, not while your aunt fluttered over the seating arrangements, not when the soup was served in delicate porcelain bowls trimmed with gold. He sat beside you like a picture of aristocratic perfection—coat tailored to his lean frame, gloves off and fingers tapping once against the linen tablecloth.

But his eyes?

His eyes were the only impolite thing about him.

They dragged over your features like a man studying every weakness, every soft edge. Like he was starving. And worse—you knew he wanted to be caught in the act of it.

You lifted your glass, sipping to distract yourself, but you could feel him watching the way your lips wrapped around the rim.

He hadn’t spoken to you yet. Not a single word. But it didn’t matter. His silence was louder than anything.

When you glanced at him, trying to catch him off guard, he didn’t look away.

His gaze dropped—slowly—to your mouth, then your throat, then the line where your dress dipped just enough to hint, never reveal. You swallowed, suddenly far too aware of your own body. Of the quick fluttering in your chest.

He smiled.

Not charming.

Not sweet.

Dangerous.

“Is it warm in here, dear?” your aunt asked sweetly, fanning herself. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you replied, barely managing to keep your voice steady. “Just… the wine.”

Chan leaned slightly closer, voice low enough only for you to hear. “It’s not the wine.”

You stiffened.

He continued, tone soft and cruel. “You’ve worn that perfume again. The one you had on the night we danced.”

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Liar.”

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck. Your aunt was still speaking, oblivious. The guests were laughing at some joke you didn’t hear.

But all you could feel was him.

The way his knee brushed yours under the table and stayed there.

The way his fingers moved—idly—to trace the rim of his wine glass, and your mind betrayed you with the image of that same hand gripping your waist instead.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you said through gritted teeth, pretending to butter a roll.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to ruin me.”

He paused, lifting his glass to his lips, watching you over the rim. “I do.”

Your hand slipped slightly on the knife.

He caught it—barely—and set it down for you, fingers brushing your wrist.

You looked up sharply, mouth parting to say something, anything—

But the words dissolved when you saw the look in his eyes.

He wasn’t playing anymore.

He was choosing.

You.

And that terrified you more than anything.

You escaped the dining room like a woman fleeing a battlefield—corset too tight, skin too hot, his gaze still burning into the back of your neck.

The moment your slippers hit the gravel path of the garden, you inhaled like you’d been underwater all night. Cool evening air rushed into your lungs, the scent of roses sharp in the dark.

But peace never came.

Because he followed you.

You didn’t need to look back. You could feel him. The heavy, charged presence of him.

“I thought you’d had your fill of staring,” you said softly, stopping beneath the hedge arch, moonlight casting silver over the gravel.

Chan’s voice came from behind you, low and unrushed. “I didn’t get dessert.”

You turned then, ready to spit something scathing—anything to gain control of this thing between you.

But the moment you met his eyes, the words disintegrated.

He looked at you like he already had you. Like your corset might as well be undone, your throat already marked.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered, not trusting the air between you.

He stepped closer. “Like what?”

“Like you want to ruin me.”

“I do.”

And then—finally—his hands were on you.

One slid around your waist, firm and possessive. The other tilted your chin up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. And he kissed you.

Not gentle.

Not soft.

Devouring.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took that, too—his tongue sweeping in, lips urgent, demanding. His hand splayed wide over your back, pressing you closer until there was no space between your chest and his.

Your fingers curled in the fine wool of his coat as his mouth left yours and trailed lower—to your jaw, to your throat.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your neck.

You were trembling. “Say what?”

“My name.”

“Chan,” you breathed. “Chan—please—”

He groaned softly, like the sound of his name on your lips undid him.

He kissed your neck, then again, harder—biting, not enough to break skin but enough to leave no doubt.

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist, then gripping your hip like he was anchoring himself.

You should’ve stopped this.

You should’ve.

But you didn’t.

You wanted it.

You wanted him.

And that was when you heard it.

A sharp inhale. A tray clattering.

You both froze.

A maid stood several steps away, eyes wide in the dark, hand over her mouth.

“I—I’m sorry, Your Grace, Miss—I didn’t know anyone—”

She turned and fled, skirts whipping behind her.

“Wait—” you tried to call, stepping forward.

Chan caught your wrist. “Don’t.”

“She saw—”

“She’s a servant. She won’t—”

“Yes, she will, Chan,” you hissed, yanking away from him. “All it takes is one word. One laugh in the kitchen and by morning, I’m finished.”

You turned to face him fully, chest heaving.

“You’re a Duke. They’ll forgive you. But me? I’ll be the girl who let herself be mauled in the garden like a common courtesan!”

His jaw clenched. “Then we’ll say it was nothing.”

“No one will believe that!”

He didn’t answer. And that silence—that pause—was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Because you knew.

He didn’t want to marry you.

And you were already ruined.

Your heart thundered in your chest as your throat tightened, panic twisting into something that felt an awful lot like betrayal.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Back inside. Through the drawing room. Into the parlor where the guests still lingered, oblivious.

Your aunt beamed as you reentered. “Ah, there you are! We were just speaking of—”

You cut her off.

“I have an announcement,” you said, loud enough to command the room.

Every head turned.

Chan stepped in behind you. Silent. Watching.

“We’re engaged,” you said. Clear. Calm. Final.

A beat of silence. Then gasps.

Your aunt shrieked in delight. “Oh, finally! I knew it!”

You turned, facing Chan. You saw the shock flash behind his eyes. The fire. The fury. The disbelief.

He moved toward you, slow, steady.

And when he stopped at your side, he didn’t speak at first.

But his hand found yours.

And he said, with a voice laced in velvet and steel: “Yes. We are.”

~~~~

The drawing room door slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing through the quiet study like the crack of a whip.

Chan didn’t speak at first.

He stood just inside the doorway, shoulders tense, breath slow and controlled—but barely. You could feel the weight of his fury pressing down on the room like a storm about to break.

“You had no right,” he said finally, voice like ice.

You turned to face him, chin high. “I had no choice.”

He laughed. Just once. Dry and humorless. “There’s always a choice, Miss L/N.”

“You were going to let that maid ruin me.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was thinking.”

You stepped toward him, fire in your chest. “And how long should I have waited, Chan? Until the scandal was printed in the Lady Whistledown column? Until I was whispered about in every drawing room across London?”

He met your eyes, jaw tight. “You should have spoken to me. Not trapped me.”

“Trapped you?” you repeated, stunned. “You kissed me. You touched me. You made it very clear what you wanted—”

“That was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

Silence swelled between you, thick with hurt.

You swallowed, forcing the lump in your throat back down. “So now I’m a mistake.”

He looked away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean.”

His hands curled into fists. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I’m asking for the truth.”

He hesitated. And then, flatly: “I can’t have children.”

You froze.

His eyes flicked back to yours, unreadable. “That’s the truth.”

You waited for more—for anything. An explanation. A reason. Something to soften the blow. But nothing came.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Yes, I do—”

“No, you don’t,” he snapped, stepping forward suddenly, voice sharp with heat. “You made the announcement. You made the decision for both of us. So don’t stand there and demand my vulnerability like you deserve it.”

The words cut deeper than you expected.

“I never meant to hurt you,” you said, quieter now. “I was trying to protect myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why does it feel like you hate me?”

He sighed through his nose, turning away from you, one hand braced against the edge of the fireplace mantle. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then what is this?”

He didn’t answer.

You stared at his back, heart cracking open in your chest.

“I still want to marry you,” you said.

His shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t care about children. I just want—”

“Stop,” he said, so softly it made your voice die in your throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

And still, he wouldn’t look at you.

You stood in silence for a long moment before turning for the door.

“I’ll leave you alone now, Your Grace,” you said, voice trembling despite your best effort. “You seem to prefer it that way.”

And then you left him there, alone in the dark.

~Lady Everly's Country Estate~

The wedding was quiet. Intentionally so.

Only a small number of guests had been invited—mostly the Duke’s inner circle. Lord Minho, poised and immaculately dressed, stood beside Chan as his witness, alongside Lee Felix and Lord Hyunjin. In the pews sat nobles of lesser note, their presence more symbolic than significant, murmuring softly among themselves as they observed the hurried ceremony.

Your aunt had arrived in a gust of perfume and pearls, draped in lace and false affection, flanked by her usual entourage of gossip-hungry ladies. They buzzed with excitement over the scandalous swiftness of the union, already speculating about what prompted it.

But you didn’t hear a word of it.

Your eyes were fixed on him.

Chan stood at the altar, stiff and noble, his dark hair swept back in perfect form. His jaw tight, expression unreadable. Regal. Remote. He looked every inch the Duke—untouchable, unreachable. And not once did he meet your eyes.

The vows blurred.

“I do,” you whispered, the words sticking in your throat.

And just like that—it was done.

You were his. A Duchess.

The drawing room hosted a modest celebration: soft chamber music floating through the air, polished crystal clinking with champagne, voices raised in polite toasts. You floated through it all, smiling where required, nodding through compliments that felt far away.

It wasn’t until Lord Hyunjin approached that you were jolted back to the present.

“You look radiant, Your Grace,” he said with a warm bow. “Or shall I say… Duchess?”

You mustered a faint smile. “Thank you, Lord Hyunjin.”

He leaned in, voice dropping. “I thought you might want to know—Chan refused your dowry.”

Your smile faltered. “He… what?”

“He told your aunt he wouldn’t take a single coin from her. Said it wasn’t needed. Not even for the estate.” Hyunjin tilted his head subtly in Chan’s direction. “Said he’d rather earn everything for you himself.”

Your breath caught.

Hyunjin’s smile softened. “Perhaps he’s looking toward the future. A family, maybe. When the time is right. That dowry could help—”

But he never finished.

Because you had already gone pale.

You barely whispered a goodbye before you turned, skirts sweeping behind you as you fled the room.

You made it to the guest chamber just in time for the first sob to break from your chest.

Shutting the door behind you, you leaned against it for a moment, willing yourself not to fall apart. But it was no use. Your legs buckled, and you collapsed into the velvet chair near the hearth, hands trembling in your lap.

A family.

Hyunjin had meant it kindly, you were sure. But the word hit like a dagger.

You could still hear Chan’s voice echoing from days ago. “I can’t have children.” “You don’t need to understand.”

You buried your face in your hands, tears coming harder now, hot and aching.

A soft knock came at the door. You froze.

Then the familiar scent of lilacs drifted in as your aunt let herself in with practiced ease. “There you are,” she said, her voice light and falsely sweet. “You nearly caused a scene.”

You swiped at your cheeks, but she saw the red in your eyes. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Honestly, darling. You’ve just secured your place in the peerage. There’s no need for tears now.”

“I just needed a moment,” you managed hoarsely.

She approached with a rustle of silk, perching beside you as though you were a child in need of grooming. She fussed with your veil, adjusted your skirts. “I’ll admit, I never thought you had it in you,” she said. “But you did it. A Duke. You’ve made the family proud again.”

You stiffened. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Oh, I know.” She waved a hand. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt that we’re respectable now. Speaking of which—has anyone properly told you what happens tonight?”

You went still.

She took that as a yes.

“No need to be afraid. Men are simple. He’ll want you in bed—he’ll take what’s his, and you’ll let him. It’s the natural order of things. Might hurt at first, but it’s your duty now. To produce an heir. That’s what all this has been for.”

Your breath hitched.

An heir.

You stared down at your trembling hands, voice barely a whisper. “But… if he can’t give me children…”

She paused.

“…will he still want to do it?” you asked, your voice breaking at the edges, gaze locked on the firelight.

She raised a brow. “Men always want to do it. Whether it bears fruit or not.”

You said nothing.

Silence settled, thick and suffocating.

Your aunt stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirts. “Pull yourself together,” she said. “You’re a Duchess now. That alone is worth the sacrifice.”

She left the door open behind her.

You sat there, staring into the fire, your wedding band cool against your finger.

You wondered—if marriage wasn’t about love… or family…

Then what was it about?

~~~~

The journey from London to Blackwood Manor was long—days by carriage, even under the most favorable conditions. And with the wedding arranged in such haste, there had been no time for a proper honeymoon, no elaborate send-off. Only hurried goodbyes, shallow toasts, and whispered expectations.

By the time the sun dipped below the rolling hills, casting the countryside in hues of gold and ash, the horses had grown weary—and so had you.

Chan called a stop in a sleepy village nestled along the road. A modest tavern stood at its center, plain but welcoming. The innkeeper bowed low at the sight of the Duke’s crest, and soon you were inside, warming your hands by the hearth as your husband spoke in quiet tones to the keeper.

Two rooms.

You heard him say it.

Not one. Not shared.

Two.

Your heart thudded quietly in your chest as the innkeeper handed over two brass keys, each dangling from a worn leather tag. Chan took them both, turned, and offered you one.

“We’ll continue the journey in the morning,” he said simply, his voice even, unreadable. “You’ll be more comfortable this way.”

You took the key slowly, your fingers brushing his. “Oh,” you said softly. “So… we won’t be—?”

He looked at you then, and the flicker in his eyes almost made your breath stop.

“No,” he said, and there was something strained behind the word. “Not tonight.”

He turned without another word and headed for his room.

You stood in the hallway a moment longer than you should have, your skin buzzing with questions you didn’t dare ask aloud.

The room was small but clean. The bed was turned down, the hearth lit just enough to cast a golden glow over the walls. You undressed slowly, slipping into your nightgown, folding your wedding dress carefully over the back of the chair.

You lay down with your back to the door, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The way he looked at you when you walked down the aisle. The tension in his jaw when he took your hand. The way he refused your dowry. The way he refused you.

But then… why did it feel like he wanted you so badly he could barely look at you?

The creak of the door snapped you out of your thoughts an hour later.

You sat up.

Chan stood in the doorway.

His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair slightly mussed like he’d run a frustrated hand through it a thousand times. His eyes found you—no hesitation this time.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice quiet. Rough.

You swallowed and nodded. “Of course.”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said finally.

“Neither could I.”

His eyes dropped for a moment, then returned to yours. “I thought this would be easier if I stayed away. That if I kept my distance, maybe I could ignore it.”

“Ignore what?”

He exhaled, his hands flexing at his sides. “How badly I want you. How much I feared you didn’t want me back.”

Your breath caught. “You thought I didn’t want you?”

“I thought… maybe you only married me because you had to. For duty. Not for desire. Not for love.”

You rose slowly from the bed, the nightgown falling gently around your legs. “I thought the same,” you said, voice trembling. “I thought I was the only one lying awake, aching for something I thought you would never give.”

He stepped toward you then, like the distance between you had become unbearable.

“I’ve wanted you every second since I met you,” he said, voice thick with restraint. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you. And hated myself for it, because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

“I want you,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Now. Here.”

He closed the distance between you in two strides and kissed you like he was unraveling. His hands cupped your jaw, then your waist, then slid lower, gripping your hips as his mouth took yours with growing hunger. The kiss turned hot—tongues meeting, breaths colliding, a low groan rising from his throat as you tangled your fingers in his hair and pressed closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your mouth, breathless.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, pulling him back in.

Your nightgown was gone in moments, lifted over your head and tossed aside, leaving you bare in the firelight. His eyes swept down your body—slow, reverent—and he reached out with both hands, tracing the line of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, kissing your neck, your shoulder, down to your chest. When his mouth closed around your nipple, your breath hitched, hands fisting in his shirt. He sucked gently, then bit—just enough to make you gasp.

He undressed with shaking hands, never tearing his eyes from you. You drank in every inch of him—broad shoulders, smooth skin, the hard lines of muscle and restraint carved into him like stone. When he finally pressed you back onto the bed and settled between your thighs, your whole body ached for him.

He kissed a path down your stomach, then lower, until his mouth hovered just above where you burned for him.

“Let me taste you,” he said, voice rough and reverent.

You nodded, hips already tilting toward him. When his tongue found you—slow and firm—you cried out, one hand flying to the back of his head. He licked you with long, unhurried strokes, circling your clit with the kind of precision that could only come from obsession. He groaned as he devoured you, like the taste of you was the sweetest thing he’d ever known.

You shattered on his tongue, thighs trembling around his head as he coaxed every wave of pleasure from you. And when he rose over you again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, you reached for him, desperate and breathless.

“Now, Chan,” you whispered. “Please.”

He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. Then he lined himself up at your entrance, eyes locked on yours as he slowly pushed in.

The stretch was intense—deep and thick and slow—but you welcomed it, hips rising to meet him. He held still for a moment once he was fully inside, forehead pressed to yours.

“God,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he began to move—long, deliberate strokes that made your entire body hum. He filled you completely, the friction unbearable in the best way. He kissed you through every thrust, touched you like you were fragile and powerful all at once.

He groaned your name, voice hoarse, broken, and the sound of skin against skin filled the room. Your legs wrapped around him, drawing him deeper, needing more. And he gave it—harder now, faster, hips rolling into yours with each thrust until your moans echoed off the stone walls.

When you came again, it hit hard, your whole body arching beneath him. He followed moments later with a low, guttural groan, pulling out and spilling the sheet beside you.

He climbed back over you, chest heaving, forehead against yours, your sweat-slicked bodies tangled together.

“I love you,” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face. “So much I can barely breathe.”

You kissed him softly, slowly, your body still trembling. “I love you too.”

He gathered you into his arms, holding you close as the fire crackled beside the bed. And when you both finally drifted off to sleep, it was with your body wrapped around his, your heart finally at peace.

That night, he didn’t return to his room.

~~~~

The carriage rolled to a stop beneath the towering arches of Blackwood Manor.

The estate loomed above you, grand and gray, its spires clawing toward the sky like the fingers of a half-remembered dream. Ivy scaled the walls in tangled webs, and the shuttered windows stared blankly down, as though keeping watch over memories that refused to rest.

Chan stepped out first, then turned and offered you his hand. You took it—because you always would.

He gave your fingers a quiet squeeze. “Welcome home.”

Home.

The word echoed strangely in your mind as you looked up at the manor—this place he had inherited too young, too solemn. A house not given, but left behind by a father who ruled it with more presence in absence than in love. Even now, you felt the weight of him in the stone and silence, lingering like smoke that never cleared.

A line of servants waited along the drive, heads bowed. At the front stood an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a stern bun—her presence proud and unshakable.

“Your Grace,” she greeted Chan with a curt nod, then turned to you and softened. “My lady. We’re honored to welcome you.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice calm despite the knot tightening in your chest.

“Mrs. Lee has managed Blackwood longer than anyone,” Chan murmured, still holding your hand. “And she’s Felix’s mother.”

Your eyes widened. “That Felix?”

Mrs. Lee let out a quiet laugh. “Yes, that one. Writes when he remembers. Still more trouble than ten sons.”

“She’s the only person who ever told my father off to his face,” Chan said with a glint of admiration. “And lived to keep her job.”

A flicker of pride passed through her eyes. “Someone had to keep him from turning out just like the old Duke.”

Her words were affectionate—but Chan’s expression dimmed. And just like that, the air changed.

Inside, the manor was as grand as you’d expected—and colder. Every surface polished to perfection. Every corner too quiet. Velvet drapes, thick with dust. Oil portraits of stone-faced ancestors loomed from gilded frames, as if daring you to speak too loudly in their presence.

The silence between you and Chan grew heavier with every step.

He led you through the drawing room, the music parlor, the massive study that had once belonged to his father. Each one was beautiful. Each one made your chest ache.

And then you reached the west wing.

Down a narrower hallway, one door sat slightly ajar—its frame a faded yellow, unlike the rest. Your footsteps slowed.

You didn’t know why you were drawn to it. Only that you were.

You pushed the door open.

A nursery.

Sunlight spilled in through lace curtains, catching in the dust that hung in the air. A cradle rested near the window. A small rocking chair sat perfectly still. Nothing had moved here in years, and everything looked like it was waiting.

Your hand tightened around the doorknob.

Behind you, Mrs. Lee’s voice carried gently. “I expect that room will be filled soon.”

The words hit you like a stone to the chest.

Your breath caught, sharp and sudden.

She didn’t know.

You turned away quickly, blinking hard, nodding as if you hadn’t just felt your heart fracture anew. “Of course,” you murmured. “Thank you.”

You kept walking before anyone could see the tears gather.

Chan caught up with you moments later, just as you ducked into an empty sitting room, pressing a hand to your mouth to keep it all in.

“I saw your face,” he said quietly.

You didn’t turn around. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No,” he said. “But it still hurt.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Chan came to stand behind you, hands gently wrapping around your arms. “I know what that room means to you.”

“It’s not the nursery, Chan. It’s all of it. This whole place feels like it’s built on someone else’s dreams.”

“It was,” he said. “And none of them were mine.”

You looked up at him then, eyes stinging. “Then let’s make it ours.”

He didn’t speak, just leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours.

“Let’s rip it apart,” you whispered. “Every haunted corner. Every room that still smells like him. I want to paint it in colors he would have hated.”

A soft laugh escaped him, dry and fond. “Let’s burn the past and build something new.”

And you did.

That night, it began.

In the library, you kissed him until the weight of silence cracked. He pushed you against a wall lined with old volumes, lifting your skirts, his mouth hot and seeking. You gasped against his lips as he sank into you, deep and slow, your fingers clawing at his shoulders like you couldn’t hold him close enough.

You made love as though your bodies could rewrite the legacy of the house itself.

In the music room, he sat at the grand piano while you straddled him, your moans rising like a symphony as his hands roamed your back, your hips, your soul. You rode him slowly, reverently, as though you were reclaiming every note ever played in that room.

On the staircase, he pressed you to the railing, teeth grazing your neck as he thrust into you with aching desperation. Your laughter spilled through the marble halls, echoing against portraits that no longer mattered.

In the conservatory, beneath the stars and glass, he laid you among the roses, your skin dewed with sweat and moonlight. He worshipped you there—hands and mouth and body, promising with every movement that the life you shared would be no less full, no less real, simply because it would not contain children.

And finally, outside the nursery door, he stopped.

The yellow door glowed in the low candlelight.

“I hate that it hurts you,” he said softly.

You turned to him, heart in your throat. “I didn’t expect to grieve what I never had. But I do.”

He touched your face, brushing away a tear. “I don’t know what our life will look like. But it’ll be ours. I promise.”

You kissed him then, slow and deep and grateful, and let him take you there—in the hallway, between sorrow and hope, tangled in silk and healing.

Room by room, you took the manor back. Rewrote it. Reclaimed it.

And on the second week’s night, as you curled beside Chan beneath linens of your choosing, with laughter in the walls and warmth where shadows once lingered—it finally felt like home.

~~~~

The village outside Blackwood Estate bloomed in spring.

The trees lining the main lane unfurled fresh green leaves, and window boxes overflowed with flowers in every color. The market stalls bustled with life—cheeses, bread, hand-dyed ribbons, and sweet tarts displayed proudly as if each was an offering to the new Duke and Duchess.

You stood beside Chan on the cobbled square, your gloved hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm. He was dressed modestly for a nobleman, but there was no hiding the quiet nobility in his posture, the strength in his gaze.

Children peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts. Men tipped their hats. Women curtsied deeply, eyes curious and warm.

You smiled at them all.

These were your people now. And you wanted them to feel as if you were theirs.

Chan nodded to an older farmer, helped lift a barrel onto a cart, shook hands with a blacksmith. You spoke to the baker’s wife about her daughter’s wedding and accepted a flower crown from a girl no older than seven.

He watched you the entire time—eyes full of something unspoken.

On the walk back up the hill, the manor rising behind golden fields, he reached for your hand.

“You were perfect today,” he said softly.

You looked up at him. “So were you.”

“Don’t lie. I nearly dropped that barrel.”

You laughed. “Only a little.”

His smile faded into something softer—deeper. “They love you already. It took years for my father to earn even a sliver of their trust.”

“That’s because you lead with your heart,” you murmured. “Not your title.”

He stilled. Then leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Come with me.”

He led you back to the manor and inside—not to your rooms, but to the study.

His study.

The room still carried remnants of his father—heavy drapes, the oil portrait over the hearth—but it was no longer haunted. The desk held your pressed flowers. A well-loved armchair rested near the window where you liked to read.

And soon, your back was against that desk, his mouth hot and hungry on yours, his hands undoing your bodice with maddening urgency.

“You undid me today,” he breathed against your skin. “Watching you… I wanted to take you in the alley behind the bakery.”

You gasped, heat rushing through your veins.

“Chan—”

“I need you,” he growled, lifting you onto the desk, dropping to his knees.

He worshipped you there, mouth unrelenting, until you were trembling—hands buried in his hair, voice wrecked with pleasure.

And then he was above you, inside you, his thrusts hard and perfect, his mouth never straying far from your skin.

You came with his name on your tongue—and moments later, he followed with a deep groan… pulling out at the last second, spilling against your belly.

Just like always.

Later, when you lay tangled on the study floor, his head resting on your chest, a thought stirred at the edge of your mind. A whisper. A question.

You waited until evening.

In your chambers, as Mina brushed your hair by candlelight, you finally found the words.

“Mina?”

“Yes, my lady?”

You hesitated, watching her in the mirror. “Can I ask you something… personal?”

“Of course.”

You swallowed. “To make a child… does a man have to… finish inside a woman?”

She blinked. Then smiled gently, as though she’d been expecting the question. “Yes, my lady. That’s how it begins. His seed must be spent inside. It doesn’t guarantee conception, but without it…” She shook her head softly. “It’s not possible.”

You stared at your reflection. Your heart felt too loud in your chest.

Chan had never done that.

Not once.

Not on your wedding night. Not in the days after. Not even when your bodies moved together like a prayer.

He always pulled away. Always whispered he couldn’t. That it wasn’t possible.

And you had believed him.

Believed he was incapable of giving you children—because he had said so. Because he had let you grieve that absence like it was truth.

But it wasn’t.

It was a choice.

Yours had been love. And his… had been silence.

You sat still as Mina continued brushing, her strokes gentle and rhythmic, unaware of the storm building in your eyes.

Because somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the grief and confusion, a single question burned:

Why didn’t he want to give you a child?

Why hadn’t he trusted you with the truth?

And when you stood to leave the room, your hands were steady—but your heart was anything but.

You would ask him.

And this time, he would answer.

~~~~

The next day, you played the part of the duchess perfectly.

You dined with him. Walked the gardens on his arm. Smiled when he kissed your temple and laughed when he teased you. But beneath the silk and grace, something sharp coiled in your chest.

You were done waiting.

That night, after dinner, you found him alone in the library—half-buried in a ledger, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled to the forearms. His head lifted as you entered, but his smile didn’t have a chance to form.

Not before you crossed the room and kissed him.

Hard.

He made a sound of surprise in his throat, and you took advantage, licking into his mouth, fingers tangling in his shirt. You didn’t give him time to speak, to think, to question.

“Y/N—” he breathed, pulling back just slightly, eyes dark with confusion. “What’s—”

You silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. He groaned as you straddled his lap right there in his chair, your skirts riding up around your thighs.

“I need you,” you whispered against his mouth. “Here. Now.”

His hands came to your hips, gripping hard. “You have me.”

He shifted to stand, but you pushed him back into the chair with both hands on his chest.

“No. Like this.”

His eyes met yours, searching, heat and hesitation warring in his gaze—but he didn’t stop you.

You unfastened his trousers and freed him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, already hard and throbbing in your grip. His head tipped back with a guttural sound, hips lifting into your palm.

And then you sank down onto him in one slow, claiming stroke.

His hands flew to your waist, fingers digging into your skin. “Fuck—Y/N—”

You rolled your hips, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Always.”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Then don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

You rode him like you meant to leave him ruined—slow and deep and relentless. You kissed him with teeth and fire, moaned into his mouth as your bodies moved in perfect, punishing sync.

But this time, when he began to tense beneath you—when his hands gripped you tighter and his breath turned ragged—you didn’t let him pull away.

You pinned him down, forced him deeper, rode him harder.

“Y/N—wait—I can’t—”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You will.”

“Y/N, don’t—please—”

But you ignored him. You forced his release.

He came with a cry, broken and helpless beneath you. And only when the tremors passed did you finally stop moving.

You sat there, still joined, breathing hard, his hands trembling against your hips.

Then you looked down at him, voice steady.

“You lied to me.”

His gaze snapped to yours. “Y/N…”

“I asked Mina. About children. About what it takes to make one.”

He swallowed hard.

“You never finished inside me. Not once. You let me believe you couldn’t. That you were incapable. And I mourned that. I grieved for something you knew was never lost.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did!” you snapped. “You let me suffer. And for what? Some self-righteous martyrdom? To protect me from a decision I never got to make?”

“I was protecting you—”

“No. You were protecting yourself.” You climbed off him, yanking your skirts back into place. “You lied because you were a coward.”

He stood, eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare call me a coward.”

“Then what would you call it?” you shouted. “Keeping secrets? Controlling my future without asking me? Lying every single time I looked you in the eye and asked for honesty?”

“I was trying to break the cycle. I didn’t want to become him.”

“You’re not your father,” you said coldly. “But you are acting like him. You made a choice for both of us without my consent.”

His fists clenched. “You think I did this out of cruelty? You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted,” you said. “Because you never trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”

He was quiet for a moment. Breathing hard. Then, quieter: “I didn’t know how.”

“Bullshit,” you spat. “You knew exactly how. You just didn’t want to risk what we had.”

“I was afraid!” he exploded. “Afraid of losing you, of repeating the same fucking legacy I was born into—of becoming him. You don’t understand what it means to carry that name.”

“And you don’t understand what it means to love someone and be lied to by them,” you said, voice shaking with fury. “You broke something. And I don’t know if it can be put back together.”

His jaw tightened. “Then maybe you never really trusted me either.”

That hit harder than it should have. You stared at him, stunned.

Then: “Don’t turn this on me. I wanted a future with you. I fought for it.”

“And I was trying to protect you from mine,” he said, teeth clenched. “But fine. You want the truth? You have it now.”

“And I wish I didn’t,” you said coldly.

Silence fell—sharp and final.

He didn’t reach for you.

You didn’t take a step back.

You turned and walked out, your footsteps echoing down the hall like gunfire.

And for the first time since becoming his wife, you slept in a separate room.

Neither of you spoke the next morning.

And the silence between you didn’t feel like grief.

It felt like war.

The manor was no longer a home. It was a battleground lined with velvet and roses.

Two weeks had passed since that night in the library. Since truths were ripped open like old wounds, and you had climbed off his lap with rage in your throat and betrayal in your bones.

You had not spoken since.

The servants, once used to your laughter echoing down the halls, had learned to carry messages instead.

“His Grace requests you delay your ride until after the rain.”

“My lady wishes to dine alone tonight.”

“His Grace is unavailable.”

Their words were ghosts now, passing between you like smoke under closed doors.

He slept in the Duke’s chambers at the end of the west hall. You remained in the Duchess’s rooms, your door bolted every night. You shared corridors, not conversations. Meals, not meaning.

Even in public, where smiles were required, your interactions were cold and clinical—just enough to preserve the illusion of a perfect union.

And still, the silence between you screamed louder than any fight.

You were seated in the morning room, a teacup in hand, when the latest issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers arrived by courier from London. Mina fetched it for you, expecting you to scoff at the latest scandals with detached amusement.

But your heart dropped on the very first page.

Lady Everly Fairchild, long thought to embody the virtues of refinement and restraint, was recently spotted departing a certain notorious Viscount’s private club—unescorted and in a state that could only be described as… indecorous. While society recovers from the shock, one wonders how this development will reflect upon her illustrious niece, the newly minted Duchess of Blackwood. And what must the ever-composed Duke make of such scandal trailing so close to his name?

You stared down at the page, breath gone tight.

A scandal.

And your name dragged right alongside it.

You rose from your chair and passed the paper to Mina.

“Ready my bags,” you said quietly. “I’m going back to London.”

He found you in the foyer, gloved and laced, as the footmen loaded your trunks into the carriage.

“You’re leaving?” Chan’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

You didn’t look at him. “There’s a scandal involving my aunt. I need to manage it before it worsens.”

A pause. Then, carefully: “You intend to go alone?”

You turned toward him, meeting his gaze for the first time in days. “Does it matter?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“Why?” you asked coolly. “It’s not as though we’re—”

“I’ll go with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He stepped closer, but his tone was devoid of warmth. “For appearances. They’ll talk if the Duchess returns to London without her husband.”

You folded your arms. “Let them talk.”

“I won’t give them the satisfaction,” he said, cold steel behind every word. “And you might be—”

He stopped.

But the sentence hung between you anyway.

You might be pregnant.

Your stomach knotted. “So this is about control, then. Not duty.”

“No. It’s about knowing if there’s a child,” he said bitterly. “And what that will mean for both of us.”

You stared at him—this man you had once trusted, once craved, once bled for.

“How noble of you,” you said softly. “To care only when your bloodline is involved.”

He flinched. Just barely. But it was enough.

“I’ll have the staff prepare a second room at my London residence,” you added. “I assume you won’t want to share.”

His eyes locked on yours. “No. I won’t.”

Silence.

Then you turned toward the carriage without another word.

~~~~

The ride to London was long. Silent.

You sat on opposite sides of the carriage, staring out different windows, breathing the same air but not the same life.

The city loomed ahead, glittering with gossip and expectation.

And for all the world knew, the Duke and Duchess of Blackwood were returning in triumph.

Only you knew the truth:

That inside the carriage sat two people who had once loved each other like fire—

Now nothing more than strangers, dressed in silk and secrets.

As evening descended upon your aunt Everly’s estate in London, the echoes of high society filled the grand halls. You sat in the lavish parlor, your back straight, eyes sharp. The whispers from the latest paper had already cast a shadow over your name, and now you had to ensure it didn't consume you. The scandal surrounding your family was spreading, and it was only a matter of time before it reached the highest circles. You couldn’t afford that.

"Aunt Everly," you began, your voice steady but firm, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on your shoulders. "We must act swiftly. The gossip is escalating, and if we don’t address it, it will only get worse."

Your aunt, lounging lazily in her velvet armchair, didn’t immediately respond. She took a slow, deliberate sip from her wine glass, as if savoring it more than the conversation. She avoided your gaze, and you could almost feel the disdain radiating from her.

"We cannot afford for this to affect the Duke’s reputation—or mine," you continued, walking across the room, your heels clicking against the marble floor. You stopped by the window, gazing out at the estate grounds that seemed to stretch endlessly before you. "I will take control of the narrative. I’ll attend the upcoming soirées, speak with the highest circles. I will show them that I can manage this. I can manage you."

At last, her eyes met yours, and you saw that glimmer of recognition. There was no approval in her gaze, but perhaps a flicker of begrudging respect. "You would put yourself in the firing line for our name?" she asked, her voice thick with both skepticism and something close to admiration.

You held her gaze, unwavering. "For the family. I won’t let this destroy what little we have left."

Her lips curled into something that almost resembled a smirk, but it quickly disappeared. After a moment’s pause, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Then I suppose it’s as you say. Take control. But be careful, my dear. This game is not one for the faint-hearted."

You nodded once more, a sense of determination settling over you. You would show them all what it meant to be in control. You would prove that you weren’t just a figurehead in this game of society, but that you had teeth—claws, even.

~~~~

The hours of night stretched on, and the sounds of the house around you grew quieter. Restless, you paced the halls, each step feeling heavier than the last. The scandal, the whispers, and the Duke—each thought wrapped tighter around your chest until you could barely breathe. You hadn’t spoken to Chan in days, and the silence between you gnawed at you, unsettling and suffocating.

You finally found yourself standing at the grand staircase, your gaze falling to the darkened foyer below. No sign of him. No sound of footsteps. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. The quiet had become unbearable. The silence between you had stretched too far, too long, and it was suffocating.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Chan stepped inside. His silhouette barely registered in the dim light, his coat undone, his shirt slightly untucked, and his hair messier than usual. You could smell the faint scent of alcohol, sharp and mingling with the chill of the night air.

He barely glanced your way as he closed the door behind him, his gaze lowered, avoiding yours. "Y/N," he muttered, that one word hanging between you like a lifeline—tattered and fraying.

"Where have you been?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended. The suspicion in your tone was undeniable as you descended down the stairs to stand in front of him.

He stopped, eyes flicking toward you, but they were distant, closed off. "Nowhere."

"Nowhere?" Your heart tightened, and a bitter laugh escaped you. "So, you've been with women."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable. The accusation lingered, cold and heavy, and neither of you moved to break the tension.

"You..." The hurt, the anger, the despair welled up in you all at once, too much to contain. "Is there anything left, Chan? Anything at all?"

For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence between you felt sharper than any words could have. But then, without warning, his hands reached for you, pulling you close. His lips crashed onto yours with desperate urgency, hunger in every movement. There was no tenderness in the kiss—just raw need, as if he were trying to apologize with his body, to make up for the space that had grown between you.

You kissed him back, just as urgently, needing to feel something—anything—to break the tension that was crushing you both. His hands were quick and rough, tugging at you, pulling you onto him. The kiss deepened, frantic, as he backed you against the railing of the stairs, his body pressing you into the cold wood.

In a blur of movement, his hands slipped beneath your skirts, and you felt the heat of his touch on your thighs. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. It was raw, desperate—just like everything between you.

"Chan..." you gasped between kisses, the heat of his body against yours making it hard to think. Your hands fumbled with his trousers, desperate to feel him, to take something from him, anything to make the ache inside you stop.

But just as quickly as he had pressed you against the railing, he stopped. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable.

"No," he said, his voice low, tortured. "Not here."

His hands remained on you, but there was a wall between you now, invisible but undeniable. You stared at him, confusion mixing with frustration.

"Why?" you whispered, your voice trembling with both need and frustration. "Why now, Chan? You’ve never stopped before."

His jaw clenched, and he took a step back, his hand still gripping yours. "If you are with child, I will stay," he said quietly, as though the words were hard to utter. "I will stay to raise my heir. But if you’re not..." He paused, his voice heavy with finality. "We’ll remain married, but we will live separate lives."

The words hit you like a slap, cold and cruel. Separate lives. That was all he was offering—a life together in name, but nothing more.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to scream, to run to him, to force him to feel what you were feeling. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

"Is that all I am to you?" you asked, the tears rising despite your best efforts to hold them back. "A means to an end?"

He didn’t answer immediately. His silence spoke volumes—he wasn’t sorry, and he wasn’t going to pretend. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded once, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I’ll do what’s right, Y/N. I’ll stay. I’ll do what I can. But don’t ask me to pretend." His words cut through the air, harsh and final. "I can’t be something I’m not."

Your chest tightened further, the weight of his words suffocating you. You didn’t want to hear this—not from him, not now. But the truth hung there, cold and undeniable.

"Then maybe I don’t want to be something I’m not either," you whispered, the tears threatening to spill.

Without another word, you turned away from him, retreating into the shadows of the house. The silence between you was a cold, insurmountable barrier, one that had stretched further than you could ever have imagined.

~~~~

The evening air in London was thick with the hum of society, its murmur filling the halls of your aunt's estate. You walked through the parlor, your back straight, head held high, as you navigated a sea of judgmental glances and whispers. The scandal surrounding your family had reached new heights, and tonight, it seemed, the old women of the ton were only too eager to sink their teeth into it.

Lady Margaret and the Duchess of Clyne stood by the fireplace, their conversation pausing as they noticed you enter. Their eyes flickered with disdain, barely masked behind their practiced smiles.

"Miss Y/N," Lady Margaret purred with thinly veiled mockery, "how lovely to see you. Though, I must say, I was surprised you would still grace us with your presence after the unfortunate... rumors surrounding your family."

You caught the slight sneer in her voice and felt a cold anger settle deep in your chest. But instead of responding with the fire you longed to unleash, you smiled back, all sharp edges hidden behind a calm facade.

"And you, Lady Margaret," you said with a biting edge, "must be familiar with the whispers that follow any high-society family. The more one has to hide, the louder the accusations, I suppose."

The room stilled. The Duchess of Clyne lifted an eyebrow, her smile never wavering but clearly surprised by your audacity.

"Indeed," she replied, her voice dripping with condescension. "But I daresay the Blackwoods have a longer history of... drama than most." Her gaze lingered on you for a moment, daring you to respond.

Your aunt, who had been quietly observing the exchange from her armchair, seemed unfazed by the conversation. But you could feel the weight of her silent disapproval like a weight on your shoulders. Still, you held your ground.

"You are correct, Duchess," you said coolly, "but perhaps it is the nature of those who’ve seen more than their fair share of drama to offer their opinion on others."

The words landed with an audible thud, and Lady Margaret’s expression shifted, a brief flicker of surprise before she masked it with a smile. The Duchess, too, blinked but didn’t immediately respond. You had shut them down—for now.

As you walked past the older women, you glanced over at Chan, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, his back to the room. He was watching you, but there was something unreadable in his expression. Something darker, more distant than you were accustomed to seeing.

A few days later, Chan returned home later than expected. You heard the door open, followed by heavy footsteps and the unmistakable sound of him stumbling slightly. His coat was askew, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol clung to him, mingling with the sharp scent of sweat. You didn’t need to guess where he’d been.

"Chan," you said softly as you moved into the foyer, your gaze immediately catching the bloodstains on his shirt and the bruises beginning to form along his jaw.

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with frustration. “I’m fine," he muttered, though his words betrayed the exhaustion weighing on him. He moved toward the sitting room, but his posture was stiff, his movements jerky, as if something was festering just beneath the surface.

You followed him quietly, watching as he collapsed onto the couch with a groan, trying to avoid your concerned gaze. But there was no hiding it—the fight had been more than just a brawl. He was hurting, physically and emotionally.

“Tell me what happened," you insisted, not moving from your spot by the door.

“Does it matter?" he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. "They wanted a fight. They got it.”

"Who?" you asked, your voice soft but firm. "Who were you fighting?"

He hesitated, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, but his lips were tight with anger. "The Duke of Westbrook. His friends," he said, his words bitter as they left his mouth. "They’ve been hounding me about the family name. About how I’m supposed to carry it on." His voice dipped lower as he muttered, "As if I care about any of it."

Your heart clenched in your chest at his words, but you kept your voice steady. "Chan, you don’t have to carry that weight anymore. You know that, right?"

He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes were distant, haunted. Then, with a deep breath, he spoke again, and this time his voice was quieter, almost as if he were speaking to himself rather than to you.

"I fought because I wanted them to understand," he said slowly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "I don’t want the Blackwood name to carry on. I don’t want any part of it. I was the last of us, Y/N. My father’s deathbed vow wasn’t about honor or family; it was a curse. He said the Blackwood line would die with me, and for once, I intend to honor that vow."

You froze, the weight of his words hitting you like a physical blow. His father’s cold ambition, his harsh final vow, had trapped Chan in a life he never wanted. A life he resented with every fiber of his being.

You stepped forward, your voice quiet but urgent. "You don’t have to honor it, Chan. You’re not him. You can choose a different path."

His gaze flickered up to meet yours, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t name. "I’ve made my choice," he said bitterly. "I won’t carry on the Blackwood name, and I won’t be forced into a life I don’t want. The line ends with me."

His words cut deep, but something inside you snapped at the finality of his tone. He was running from everything, from what could have been a future with you.

You didn’t want him to carry the weight of his family’s curse, but you couldn’t change his mind—not tonight, at least.

“Why won’t you open up to me?” you asked, your voice trembling with the frustration and sorrow you could no longer suppress. You sat beside him, your fingers gently pressing against his battered face as you began to tend to the wound on his lip, the roughness of his skin feeling so different from how you longed for him to be.

His chest rose and fell as he exhaled, the sharpness of his words betraying the vulnerability he kept hidden. "I can’t," he whispered. "I don’t know how to be anything but what I was made to be."

You leaned forward, your hands trembling as you continued your ministrations. "Chan... a child would be a blessing. You don’t have to face this alone." Your voice cracked with the weight of it, the hope and love you still held for him.

He pulled away, his eyes wild with pain. "No," he growled. "You don’t understand. I won’t carry on the name, not for you or anyone. I promised myself I’d be the last."

Your anger surged at his refusal, at the way he pushed you away with every word. "You made a vow to me, too," you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. "You don’t get to decide everything alone."

The silence that followed felt heavier than any argument could have.

In a moment of cold realization, you stood, your hands trembling as you prepared to walk away. "In a few days, we’ll know for sure," you said, your voice low and tight with emotion. "My courses are due, and then we’ll know if we’ll be miserable together or happy apart."

~~~~

You both agreed to join your aunt for a concert the next day, but the tension between you was palpable, a chasm too wide to bridge. You parted ways as soon as you arrived, each of you retreating to your own corner of the grand opera house, the air between you cold and unspoken.

The music swelled around you, but you barely heard it, too consumed by the ache that had taken root in your chest. And then, in the midst of the opera, something unexpected happened. Chan reached over, his fingers brushing yours in a tentative, almost fragile touch. He hesitated, his hand resting lightly on top of yours before his fingers gently intertwined with yours.

It was such a simple act, but it struck you to the core. His grip was uncertain, almost like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to reach out. You stared at his hand, frozen, unable to process the shift in his demeanor. This wasn’t the Chan who had been distant, withdrawn, and angry. This was a version of him you hadn’t seen in days—a version you weren’t sure you could trust.

But before you could respond, something shifted inside you. The pressure building in your abdomen became too much, a sudden cramp seizing you in a way that made it impossible to sit still. Your heart raced as the realization hit you like a wave. You needed to get out of there. Now.

With a sharp intake of breath, you pulled your hand from his, standing abruptly, your chair scraping harshly against the floor. You didn’t speak; you couldn’t. Your chest tightened as you fled to the hallway, the sound of your breath quickening with each step, the feeling of something changing, slipping away, consuming you.

By the time you reached the drawing room for ladies, the pressure in your abdomen had become unbearable—warm, unwelcome, cruel. You barely acknowledged the startled glances of the women already gathered there, sweeping past them in a blur of silk and panic. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, your composure collapsed.

You moved toward the corner, heart pounding, and lifted the hem of your dress with trembling hands. The stain was there—dark, undeniable. Your worst fear confirmed in one sharp breath.

You sagged against the back of a velvet chair, your fingers fumbling as you tried to clean yourself, the delicate lace of your gloves now streaked with blood. Tears stung your eyes, hot and unrelenting, and before you could stop them, they were falling—silent at first, then heavy and unrestrained.

Grief clawed its way up your throat like a scream you couldn’t bear to make. You staggered toward the low mirror by the vanity, clutching its edge as your body shook with sobs. The arguments. The silence. The aching, fragile hope you had clung to. All of it crumbled beneath this moment.

You had dared to believe that this month might be different. That maybe, just maybe…

But now…

The door creaked open behind you, and you caught the rustle of skirts, the hesitant tap of heeled shoes across the carpet. You turned, your vision blurred, and there she was—your aunt, her mouth pressed into a tight line, her eyes wide with alarm and something gentler beneath.

She didn’t speak at first. Her hands fluttered at her sides, unsure, but when she saw your face crumple again, she stepped forward without hesitation. Her arms wrapped around you, awkward but firm, holding you as if you might shatter.

You buried your face in her shoulder, the sobs breaking free in loud, gasping bursts. Her touch was stiff, uncertain, but she didn’t pull away. Her gloved hand patted your back in a rhythm that was clumsy but comforting in its own way.

“I… I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered. Her voice was soft and unsure, like she wasn’t quite sure if she was saying the right thing. “I know you wanted more.”

You clung to her like a lifeline, your tears soaking into the satin of her gown. You cried for what you had lost, for the closeness that had once seemed possible, and for the child who would never come.

Back in the opera box, Chan hadn’t moved.

He sat frozen, the haunting music of the orchestra washing over him, but he barely heard it. His eyes stared blankly ahead, but all he could truly focus on was the emptiness of the seat beside him.

And the sound—your sound. Your muffled cries, far away but distinct, echoing faintly down the corridor like a wound he couldn’t ignore.

His jaw tightened, his hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles whitened. He had heard you weep before, in anger, in frustration—but this… this was different. This was grief. And it sliced through him like a blade.

He had made a vow once. That the Blackwood name would end with him. That no child would inherit the burden of legacy, of cruelty, of duty stripped of love. That the line would die with him, and the weight of it would be buried alongside his own bones.

He had believed it noble—righteous, even. But now…

Now all he could hear was your heartbreak.

And for the first time, Chan wondered if his vow had truly been an act of honor—or just another kind of abandonment.

A selfishness disguised as sacrifice.

And as the opera swelled to its crescendo, he sat in silence, mourning something he never allowed himself to want.

𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 -

@hyeon-yi @penny44224 @nchhuhi @soupbinlily @myfriendgavemeanegg @avokralaim @teeesthings @estella-novella @0sunshinecryptid0 @finannn @lectrice-ios @hanniebunch @astrobebba

𝓜𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 -

@jehhskz @true-queen-of-mischief

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[rockrosethistle]

A list of Nightmare Time episode ideas that I thought of and I think would be cool:

1.) Mr. Chasity has been trying to sell the old Waylon Place for far too long. After trying and failing over and over, he decides to take matters into his own hands by going in himself to see what all the fuss is about. But nothing could have prepared him to meet the real ghosts of Waylon Hall. And boy oh boy do they have shenanigans in store. (The episode would be called 'Unholy Ghost') .

2.) It's been a few months since Hatchetfield was destroyed in that awful 'accident'. Emma and Paul have been living under the aliases Kelly and Ben Bridges. (there can be a joke where Emma doesn't even pretend to care about her alias and Paul cares too much.) They live in Colorado now. Emma's finally started her pot farm, and Paul is working in marketing. For the most part, they have a good life. Only Paul's acting a bit different lately. Emma caught him humming company jingles, tapping his foot to a beat she can't hear. Maybe those spores he inhaled had some effect on him. It's probably nothing, but he's never sung in the shower before...(I don't have a name for this one yet.) .

3.) Max Jägerman is failing remedial algebra. In fact, he's doing so poorly that his dad shells out and hires him a tutor, PJ. (Bryce's nerd from 'Literal Monster.) He reluctantly lets her help him. At first it seems to work and his grades are rising steadily, but as PJ lets her guard down, Max starts to notice some things. Strange symbols scribbled in the margins of her notebook, almost like...jagged smiles? Weird stains on her hands, when she gets too close she smells like roadkill. And there's this white spider that keeps showing up in his room. Sometimes he feels like it's trying to tell him something. Or warn him. Without knowing what he's gotten himself into, Max has to evade getting his soul swallowed by a hungry god of darkness. (The episode is called 'Dirty Dude Soup') .

4.) Charlotte Sweetly is jealous. Her church friend, Carol Davidson, has exactly the kind of life she wants. Charlotte's seen the way her boss talks about his wife, and would give anything for Sam to feel that way about her. One day, Charlotte finally gathers her courage and asks her how she does it. Carol takes pity on her, and decides to reveal an important secret: it's all the product of a ritual, an ancient spell she stumbled upon on a trip to an amusement park. She claims that ever since she did it, her husband can't get enough of her. "I am all he sees. He calls me the apple of his eye." Charlotte doesn't believe her at first, but Carol gave her the instructions, and why the hell not? She tries it. Unfortunately, Charlotte messes up the wording. The spell still works, but not quite as intended. And an all-seeing police officer could be a good thing, but Sam is not a good police officer. (maybe let's call this one 'Omnipocop'. But that's awful to spell so suggestions are welcome) .

5.) While trying to be an assistant, Steph accidentally botches one of Pete's science projects. He forgives her, but she still feels bad even as he assures her it's no big deal, throwing the mix of chemicals out his window just to prove it. What he doesn't know is that the last family that lived in the Spankoffski house buried their dog in the backyard, and Pete's chemical slurry just brought it back to life. On a probably unrelated note, Paul has been trying to ignore the damage he's finding in his apartment. He's been chalking most of the tipped over garbage cans and torn apart cushion up to rats--giant rats?--or maybe a squirrel. But when a decades-old "missing dog" poster shows up on his doorstep, he can't ignore the truth for any longer. (the episode would be called "Patches' Revenge" and I thing it would work because it's just the right amount of weird. It would end with Paul teaming up with the nerds to defeat undead Patches with science.) .

6.) To his utter delight, Miss Holloway finally agreed to go out with Duke on a proper date. Nothing huge, just some ice cream and a walk on the beach. They're both enjoying themselves when Miss Holloway hears something. Duke can't hear it, but he still follows her down the shore to some kind of cave grotto, where she claims the noise is coming from. She tosses a pebble into the water, testing how it might react. A few moments later, the pebble come flying out again. Duke is stunned, but Miss Holloway tosses her ice cream cone. Sure enough, a few moments later is comes flying back, perfectly dry. They've clearly discovered something, and over the next few days, Duke and Miss Holloway experiment and try to learn about the grotto and the water in it. It's too deep to see the bottom, so their tests mostly involve tossing different things to see how they'll react. Little do they know, there was a reason Miss Holloway could hear a noise coming from the cave. There's a reason it drew her in, too. There's something singing to her, something that lives at the bottom of the grotto. And with each thing they feed it, it becomes a little bit stronger...(and then it's called something unassuming like "Wavecrest Cave")

So that's Nightmare Time season four all lined up. Please tell me if you have a good name idea for episodes 2 and 4. Also if anyone wants to use these as writing prompts, be my guest (just tag me so I can read them)

[harrisonarchive]

Footage (from a charity race on June 3, 1979) courtesy of AP Archive.

“In his slow, deliberate — and knowledgable — Scouse drawl, George will tell you about oversteer, understeer, gear ratios and why he hopes Jody Scheckter will be world champion this year.And he will rave about Fangio with the same 12-year-old’s wide eyes that watched the great Argentinian dominate the 1955 British Grand Prix at Aintree with Mercedes team-mate Stirling Moss.‘I can’t remember why I started going to Aintree — I think I just saw a poster advertising a race,‘ he says. ‘Anyway, I used to go there whether it was a big or small meeting, take my butties and sit on the Railway Straight embankment to watch the race. I went to a lot of bike meetings as well — I was a big fan of Geoff Duke!‘I had a box camera and went round taking pictures of all the cars. If I could find an address I wrote away to the car factories, and somewhere at home I’ve got pictures of all the old Vanwalls, Connaughts and BRMs. All that stuff got lost when I went on the road with The Beatles, but I’m sure it’s still in my dad’s attic.‘“ - Motor, July 28, 1979 “I’ve never raced seriously myself, but I had a go in a Formula One car, with quite an old 3-liter- engine car. I’d drive round Brand’s Hatch in one. And I drove in a charity for Gunnar Nilsson, a Swedish driver who died of cancer, because I gave the money from the ‘Faster’ single off George Harrison to Gunnar’s cancer fund. Anyhow, they had this day for the Gunnar Nilsson campaign at the track in England and they asked me to drive this 1960 Lotus, which had won a race in Monte Carlo when driven by the great English driver Sterling Moss. This car had no seatbelts, and because it had been in a museum for 20 years the tires were hard with no grip on them, yet the car was still pretty quick! But they assured me it was just a demonstration run, going round for five laps in formation and then five laps at your own pace. So I said I’d do it. I got there, and it’s Jackie Stewart in the Tyrrell he won his ‘73 championship in; James Hunt in the McLaren. Phil Hill in his famous Ferrari. I’m walking to my car while chatting with driver John Watson about the pleasure of the run we’re about to take, and he says, ‘You’re joking. There’s no racing driver that goes in formation! As soon as they drop that flag, they’ll all be gone like crazy!’ Sure enough, as soon as the checkered flag fell, the other cars went whoosh as mine puttered along in a haze of smoke! By the time I got to my first lap they were already coming behind me for their second lap, screaming away! Scared me stiff! [wild laugh] But at least I did better than James Hunt, who broke down on the first pass.” - George Harrison, Goldmine, November 27, 1992

[honeybeebard]

Helping You Remember (Enver Gortash x DarkUrge!Tav)

Summary// Ever since the crash Tav had been stripped of her memories, with nothing but her name and this violent urge inside her body wreaking havoc with every step she took. It was no small feat to control it, or at least tame it, and just when she thought she had gotten it under control a new foe, or an old ally, comes to remind her where she came from.

(I didn’t expect my first fic in the BG3 fandom to be about Gortash. In fact, I have several half-written projects of other characters but for whatever reason this man has recently taken a hold of me and I’m afraid I’ve sunk too deep. This was originally going to be a one-shot but it’s taken on a life of its own and will now be a multi-chapter!

This first chapter is heavy on angst but the next chapter will be better, I promise! I just imagine this is how your companions would react to the news as well as how Gortash gets his foot in the door of reclaiming you. I hope you like it! I normally write for ACOTAR so this was so much fun!) WARNINGS: Heavy angst, Mentions of past Dark Urge actions

It had been a long, painful journey to get to Baldur’s Gate but Tav had made it. Her companions had made it. Everyone was alive and mostly well, save for the tadpole in their brains, the end of the world, and the recent discovery of Tav’s family history. As they made their way to Wrym’s Rock Fortress it was the only thing her mind could focus on. Astarion, Karlach, and Wyll were all too happy to chat about being back but she couldn’t stop thinking about what she was. 

Bhaalspawn.

Parents throughout Baldur’s Gate told stories of her kind to warn their children of the dangers of the world. She felt all the sins of her kin crawling up her back, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze in fear that they would see her for who she was. A monster. It didn’t matter how hard she fought the Urge inside her… her fate seemed to be already written in the stars. How could she save herself from this? She hadn’t even realized they had made it to the doors of the fortress until Astarion gently nudged her arm, giving her a concerned look as she was torn from her thoughts. “Are you alright, darling? You’re looking a bit clammy.��� His voice was smooth but she could see the worry in his eyes. He was the first one she had told when she found out, seeking comfort in his arms just as he had done back in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. They didn’t have an official title to whatever their relationship was, sometimes friends and other times lovers, but they were each other’s closest confidants. He understood her better than herself sometimes and he had assured her that whatever she was facing, he would be there to help. So it pained her to lie through her teeth as she mumbled, “Fine. Let’s just get this over with. Hopefully, we can kill two birds with one stone.” Astarion knew she was lying but didn’t press her further, his shoulders tensing slightly as he gave a curt nod and entered the building with the others. The air was buzzing with excitement as everyone awaited the coronation of Lord Gortash. His posters were everywhere, most people hailing him as a hero, but from what she had heard from Karlach he was anything but that. And especially after discovering him at Moonrise, netherstone in the gauntlet decorating his hand, she only felt that anger within her rise more at the ignorance of the city. There was something else too, like a flash of nostalgia, but it flitted from her mind before she could grasp it. Tav shook her head as they made their way up the stairs, preparing for anything as they arrived at the grand hall.

Rows of seats lined the sides as a dark red carpet decorated the ground, leading all the way up to where Duke Ravengard and Gortash stood. Wyll visibly bristled at the sight of his father, his hand steady on the edge of his blade while Karlach slowly began to grow hotter and hotter at the sight of her former friend. 

“I can practically taste his blood from here.” Karlach seethed, her fists clenching. Astarion gave Tav a worrying look, wondering if now, underneath the watchful gaze of multiple Flaming Fists and the Steel Watch, was the right time to pick a fight.

Tav gave him a reassuring smile, turning to Karlach with a solemn expression. “I know you want nothing more than to rip his heart out but here might not be the best place to do it. Let’s hear him out first.” She speaks slowly, hoping to calm the tiefling. 

“Hear him out? He speaks nothing but lies! There is nothing he could say that could be of use to us.” Karlach snarls, turning her heated eyes to her and frowning. 

“Just trust me on this, okay?” Tav pleaded. “I promise that you will be the first one to rip him limb from limb.”

She seemed to calm slightly at Tav’s reassurance, her flames dulling as she nodded once. “I’ll hold you to that, soldier.” Karlach says, following in step as the four of them begin to walk up the aisle.

Gortash is the first to spot them, his lips turning up in a smile as he spies Karlach first. “My eyes must be deceiving me! Karlach, my dear girl, come and be welcome.” His voice was dripping with arrogance, his arms spread wide in greeting. 

“I’m not your dear anything!” Karlach snaps, her hand immediately falling to her weapon. However, just as Tav tries to step in front of them, his dark eyes turn to her and widen in surprise.

“And with you, my, why it’s my favorite bhaalspawn!” He grins as he comes closer to Tav, eyeing her up and down. “I never thought I would see you again either.”

“Wait, you know each other?” Karlach frowns, turning to look at Tav with betrayal in her eyes. 

“I swear I have no memory of him Karlach. I would’ve told you.” She stresses, holding up her hands in innocence while shaking her head rapidly. 

“Oh, I’d forgotten,” Gortash says smugly, chuckling to himself. “Your memories are quite lost aren’t they? Orin told me she’d made a fool of you. And to think you two have traveled together all this time and she hadn’t the faintest idea that you were one of my nearest and dearest.”

This time it was Astarion who spoke, his eyes hard as his jaw clenched. “What do you mean nearest and dearest?” There was a sense of urgency under his tone, something that Tav felt as well as she tried desperately to remember what Gortash already knew.

The dark-haired Lord smirked, taking a deep breath as he turned back to Tav and began to tell fill in the missing puzzle pieces of her memory. “You and I initiated this plot. No one could stand against the Dead Three so, after obtaining the crown, enslaving the brain, and creating a false God to rule the masses, there was little to stand in our way.”

Tav stumbled back a step, her head throbbing and pulse racing. No, she couldn’t have. She couldn’t have formed this plot, couldn’t have worked with Gortash. It wasn’t who she was. Was it? 

“No. I would never.” She whispered, her eyes full of anger while Gortash ignored her and carried on weaving the tale. 

“In Bhaal’s name, you set your bloody dagger to cause panic in the streets, killing in the Absolute’s name,” He smiled again as if recalling a fond memory. It made her want to vomit. “It was all going well until you had vanished, Orin claiming to be the new voice of Bhaal and taking over. She, unlike you, couldn’t control herself. She made a mess of things.”

Her stomach lurched, her knees buckling as bits and pieces of her past flashed through her mind. The blood, the screams, the wicked smile of her reflection as she all but bathed in the slain bodies of the innocent. Astarion noticed her trembling, reaching out to steady her as she tried to block out everything. 

“Have you gone soft?” Gortash asked as he stepped closer to Tav, examining her guilt filled gaze with a disappointed look. “I find that hard to believe. One’s true nature will always rise to the top.”

“That is not my true nature.” She hissed through gritted teeth, rage heating her blood as she pushed out of Astarion’s grasp and walked towards the man before her. “Take it back. Tell me you’re lying.”

“I know you know the truth, Tav.” He coos as if talking to a startled babe. “I can see it in your eyes. That Urge deep within you, clawing at its cage to be unleashed. We had something great, are something great, until you were taken. I tolerated Orin, tolerated Ketheric, but I liked you. We can still finish this together.”

As he finishes his sentence one of his hands comes up to rest on her arm, an intimate gesture that sends feelings of disgust and warmth through her body. She hated this, hated him, hated how little control she felt. Once again she felt a battle in her body between the past and the present. 

“Don’t touch me.” Tav growls, pulling away from him as if she had been burned. “I want nothing to do with you, with this plot. If anything this has only solidified my plans to kill you.”

She could feel Karlach’s approval from behind her, could feel her own body tensing for a fight only to falter when Gortash barked out a harsh laugh. 

“Oh, my dear bhaalspawn, you have no choice.” His eyes were suddenly hard and his tone like ice as he gestured around him. “The quakes are a clear warning. Without all three netherstones ruling the brain, it will break free and complete the Grand Design. Your choices are to join me and rule or subject this entire city, yourself and companions included, to becoming illithids.”

All of her companions shifted uneasily, looking at Tav for guidance. She tried to run through all the scenarios, looking for an out that didn’t include digging herself further into her past self, but the choices remained the same. 

“Together though,” Gortash straightens, giving her a charming smile. “Together we can control the brain. Renew our old partnership.”

“What kind of partnership?” Tav asked cautiously, hating how weak she sounded. Astarion cleared his throat beside her, pleading with her not to do this, but she ignored him. If she was going to find another way out of this she at least needed to get all angles of the problem…and that started with hearing Gortash’s bargain. 

“Let’s discuss it somewhere more private, hm? Away from the prying eyes of both nobles and…your group.” He looked behind her distastefully. “Meet me in my office after the ceremony. Alone.”

And before she can say another word he struts back to the middle of the room, letting the Duke continue with the blasphemous ceremony. Tav immediately motions for her friends to follow her towards the back, ignoring the words of Wyll’s father as she finally takes a moment to breathe.

“You can’t possibly be considering partnering with him.” Astarion huffs. “Please tell me you aren’t that stupid.”

“Look at what he’s done to this city, to my father,” Wyll adds, crossing his arms. “An alliance with Gortash is like asking to be stabbed in the back. He cannot be trusted.” “You’re damn right he can’t be trusted!” Karlach fumes, gnashing her teeth together. “That man is worse than a devil, Tav! He’s just trying to get in your head!”

“Enough!” Tav snapped, rubbing her temples as the pounding returned. Everyone’s opinions, including Gortash’s, were starting to make her head spin. “I know this is…a lot. I can’t process it all myself-”

“What, that you and Gortash created this entire cult, this entire problem that is threatening the lives of millions of people?” Karlach’s voice was rising with each word, her flames growing by the second. “I knew you were a bhaalspawn but Bhaal’s chosen? You are half the bloody reason we are here in the first place!”

“Karlach-” Wyll tries to intervene but she brushes him off, stalking towards Tav and jamming a red hot finger in her chest.

“No, don’t Karlach me.” She snarls, glaring down at her. “Did you not hear what she has done? The acts she committed in Bhaal’s name? Amnesia or not, you all have to see how dangerous she is.”

“I’m not!” Tav protested, tears pricking her eyes as she felt their gazes on her. It was her worst fear realized. “I’m not a monster, I don’t remember doing any of those things. I would never…”

“And yet here you are, ready to make nice with the viper.” Karlach spits, standing to her full height while regarding her with revulsion. “I need time to think.” 

Before Tav can say anything or reach out to plead for forgiveness, she storms off back to the entrance. Wyll looks between the two of them, his eyes full of sadness before he simply shakes his head and follows Karlach. The only one left is Astarion who is staring at her with an unreadable expression.

“Star…” She whispers, throat tight as she tries to reach for him only to physically recoil when he moves away from her hand. It wasn’t much, just a slight sway to the side, but it was enough to make the knife in her gut twist deeper. “Please.”

“I…I need a moment.” He murmurs, bowing his head before following the same path as her companions. Tav can’t stop herself from sinking to the floor, her soul aching as she brings her knees to her chest and cries. She doesn’t care that she’s in a room full of nobles, doesn’t care that everyone is watching her finally break, she just doesn’t care anymore.

Her friends, her entire world ever since escaping that damned nautiloid, had abandoned her. They had found out who she had been and had left her here, alone. Tav wanted to hate them, wanted to curse them, and never see them again, but could she blame them?

She was part of the reason this was all happening in the first place. She had caused all this pain, all this death, in the name of her father. Even if she didn’t remember it that didn’t absolve her of the guilt. If roles were reversed, she would probably question her relationship with the person as well.

“It’s all my fault.” She whispers, pressing her palms against her eyes harshly. The tears were hot as they ran down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking. Tav was so caught up in her emotions she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her.

It wasn’t until she felt cold, metal claws tip her chin up that she finally came to her senses, blinking up at the man who had just revealed all her immoral acts as if they were nothing. 

“My poor little bhaalspawn,” He purred, using his other hand to pull her up to stand. “All alone again.”

Tav sniffled, feeling vulnerable as he wiped a tear away with his thumb. Her entire body felt numb as he pulled her into his arms, shushing her with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Come.” He ordered. “Let me save you once more.” 

[nothnxpls]

Scones and séances

Pls Help me find a prompt/ficlet/text/post on tumblr

guys, I was reading a prompt/ficlet/text about barista danny when I accidentally clicked away. Pls help me find it again. I was not done reading and it and I was quite invested in reading it to completion. :)))

It starts with Danny in Gotham working as a barista. Then he has a group of old ladies come in and he asked an old lady about her order then realised she was a ghost. The other old ladies noticed this and gave him some money to answer their questions about their ghost friend who i think was called Lucienda(I could be remembering worng)

Then danny gets a bunch of people asking him about their ghost loved ones, but danny is like I cannot talk to ghosts. (He only talked to the old ladies because they gave him a very good tip.)

October comes around and his boss is like, we should do something. And somebody suggest to market Danny's ghost speaking thing. And they they come up with scones and séance. One every Friday for October. Danny agrees cause he will be paid extra.

Agent K(i think) came in and was like blå blå blå, u not human and, when he saw the scones and séance sign he was like u are selling your ghost powers to people?!?! But the customers are like shooo get out and his coworker is like you aint a paying customer pls get the fuck out.

And his boss contacted Signal to watch over Danny. And Danny is like thank you that's very nice boss. Best boss in the world, but he was wondering about what exactly was trigger their he is pathetic and innocent that need protection

Also I think that duke thinks that the giw are like gangs members

And then I clicked off. Plss I need to know if the original poster wrote more. Even if they didn't write any more and the post ends in the next paragraph I need closure. Becaese it keeps on sneaking in my thoughts randomly.

[insectbrainedsibling]

little bug, i'm so sorry your partner isn't supportive of the ways you cope. it's not healthy for them to be so unsupportive of something completely safe and healing for you..if you'd like, you can ramble to me as a response

--teacher cg anonymous

Its otay He don rly wan unerstand it, but I don get mad bc I know he jus don fully know how much dis helps me be safe n not anxious. Oderwise tho he perfect. Am tini around him sumtimes but only wen eepy. I think he knows it but don care. Dunno. Is confusing. ╮⁠(⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠╭乁⁠|⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠〰⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠|⁠ㄏ

My oder tini fren is a system lil so only get see him sumtimes. Don wanna bring him up front if he don wan be out bc I know dat can be scary so I jus wait for him n talk to him on his own time. I make stuff for him tho all da time! We hav matching bracelet wif a rattle on dem! I hav oder frens who know n support me very much, so need set goal n be mor open wif dem.

Time to talk bout sum happi stuffs bc we needs more cheer in da world I think. (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)

My fren gave me a tub of yarn yeserday! fren also dye my hair dis weeken wen I don hav work anymor. Wan black n red split dye but hav get black n red ombre so look less crazy wen I go to college. I cant wait to go to college bc hav my own room n own space to put up my posters! Can put up my eraserhead poster!!!! Can also be smol wifout mom or anyone finin out bc I be in da dorm wif my own room. Wanna get a lil projector to watch movies on da wall or ceiling. or put pictures up wen go bed. Like stars n space! Gonna bring all my dune books too.

We gettin a dune part three (⁠ー⁠_⁠ー) dey not doin good job wif da movies. Books are better. Is not called dune part three eider! Is dune messiah. But dey callin it part three for sum reason I dunno. old dune movie is better. Da one by david lynch, not da show or new ones. But I giv dem dis. Da man dey put as duke leto in da new one is very much like da book. Dey did dat good. But doesn make it ok to take feyds hair or alia away all togeder! Don like dat dey did dat. (↼⁠_⁠↼⁠)

Otay dis gettin tooooo long. Bye bye!! Peace n love!! Thank u for lisenin!

- June bug

[aladaylessecondblog]

the final threshold (enver gortash x good tav)

TW: Sex, oral, Tav feels guilty and is hearing Astarion and Halsin's voices.

Hope you enjoy this, I'm up way too late posting it

-----------------------------------

Tav was thankful to change out of the bridal gown and into something less restrictive, though with it came the downside of being told she would be at Gortash's side for most of the reception.

As the only one close enough to hear them closely was a Steel Watcher, as she held to his arm and waved at a cheering crowd of commoners, she spoke to him through a false smile. "How they don't see through this is a mystery to me."

Through an equally false smile did Gortash's reply come, "The people see what they want to see. And what they want to see right now is us enjoying ourselves."

She couldn't say he was wrong, as they turned from the balcony and walked back into the fortress.

The clanking sounds of the Steel Watcher echoed in the hall as it followed behind them.

"You'll find," he went on, "That they are easy to fool in that way."

"I know what your plan was, and I've seen the posters of your smirking face all over Rivington," Tav replied, "And I've heard them sing your praises from one end of the city to the other."

"And yours, of course. Naturally one hero would enjoy the company of another."

As they neared the door to the reception hall, he lay a hand over the one of hers that was on his arm.

"You're doing admirably, my dear. Simply keep pretending to be the happy, blushing bride a little while longer. Then you can drop the pretense."

Stop being polite, she thought, Be the bastard I know you are. That will make this easier.

The doors opened for them, and Tav took a deep breath as she followed him in.

----------------------------

Tav barely had time to eat before the dancing began. Her first had been with Gortash, and while he sat down to eat, the next was with Wyll.

"Karlach's already left, in case you were looking for her," he said quietly as they moved in a slow circle, "She tried to put up with it, but...you know her. To see you even pretending to be happy about this, with him..."

"I know. Where did you say she was going? I believe Gortash mentioned Moonrise Towers?"

"It seemed fitting," Wyll replied with a slight shrug, "At least, that's what he told me. Her own fortress, her own property, as a sort of...consolation prize. Jaheira...well, she's not happy about this little alliance of ours, but she trusts Karlach, so...they're going to lead a little troop of tieflings and refugees back there to build it into something 'special' again."

"She's gone too." Tav kept her face neutral but asked, "Am I going to lose all of you?"

"It looks like it. Gale is planning to go with them...Minsc, well, where Jaheira goes now, he follows." Another few turns and he added, "At least I won't be too far away."

"Yes, but--" she took in a shaky breath. "I had hoped at least one of you would...would stay. I mean, I have Scratch and the owlbear, but..."

"It can't be today," Wyll replied in a low tone as the dance ended, "But if he mistreats you, if you want out...merely send a letter mentioning the grave we dug for Astarion and Halsin."

She thanked him for his concern, and was able to sit out the next dance. Unfortunately, it was done sitting beside Gortash.

"I don't see any of your friends here besides the Grand Duke," he said quietly, after draining half a glass of wine, "Whatever happened to them?"

"They've already left," Tav replied evenly, sipping at her own glass. "Karlach is not best pleased by all this, as I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. And the rest?"

"Are going with her."

"A pity." He gave a small sound in his throat almost like a laugh and set his glass back down. "Her I could understand, but the rest...I thought surely their concern for you might outweigh their dislike of me."

Tav did not reply, and finished her glass.

The dance they were watching concluded; Gortash stood and extended his hand to her for the next.

"We have a crowd to please, my dear," he said in a tone slightly louder than normal, "It seems we must make ourselves a display once again."

She didn't want to, but she took his hand and moved onto the dance floor once again.

"You don't have to keep doing that," not meeting his eyes as she whispered, "Stop--pretending to be so--"

"Nice? Polite? ...charming?" Gortash gave a little smirk and leaned momentarily close enough to make a whisper of his own against her ear. "Can't a man enjoy his bride?"

Then he drew back.

"You'll be taking enough from me tonight as it is--" Tav started, but went quiet as they moved too near another couple.

"You wound me, Tav," he went on, "Really, now, what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"Do you want the reasons in the order they happened, or alphabetically?"

"Please," Gortash huffed and moved back to raise his arm and spin her in a slow circle before coming forward again, "You are far too valuable to mistreat, and you've taken care of more than a few problems for me. You are grieving a loss, but..."

"Do NOT," Tav seethed as quietly as possible, "Ever. Mention that to me again."

The dance ended soon after, and she pasted a smile back on.

"The point, my lady," Gortash brought one of her hands up to press a kiss to her fingers, and met her eyes as he did it, "You have nothing to fear from me."

She would almost have preferred if she did.

-------------------------------------------------

In a similar vein did the rest of the reception pass away. At some point, however, Gortash lead her away amidst a few jokes about drow from his titled noblemen.

Tav ignored them, and was silent all the way back to what she assumed would be their quarters. An opulent and almost gaudy room, full of silks and expensive furnishings and quite possibly the largest bed she'd ever seen.

Stay calm. This will be the easy part...you just have to ignore who you're doing it with.

"Your room is through that door," Gortash gestured to a door on the far side of the room, "You'll find your new wardrobe already settled in it, along with...the rest of your belongings."

Then he moved towards a desk on the other side of the bed.

"I suppose once I've changed you will--take your rights?"

"We've no need for that," he said, already taking a seat, "At least not tonight. It's not as if anyone is going to demand a bloody sheet...not that we could provide one."

"You are the first man I've ever met that wasn't eager to get to it," Tav walked to the other side of the bed, the side nearest the desk, and leaned back against the overlarge comforter. "Most men would jump at the chance."

"And you call ME arrogant," Gortash replied. He seemed to be flipping through papers and sketches--Tav recognized a few blueprints as Steel Watchers. "Men like me do not have time to indulge overmuch in carnal pleasures."

"Do you not like women?"

"Of course I do, I simply have not the obsession with sex that other men do. If I had a preference for men," he spoke shortly as he flipped over one blueprint for another, "You and I would have a very different sort of arrangement right now."

"I wouldn't have agreed to be your broodmare."

"But you would have for men far less suited to fatherhood."

"They would have been wonderful--"

It was a knife in her heart, to confront her with the idea. Tav stumbled over the sentence and let it trail off as the thought and the images of Astarion and Halsin cascaded through her mind. Perhaps a temporary look of fear in Astarion's eyes, to be replaced by a smug surety, and Oh, my dear, of COURSE a seed of mine has taken root.

Then Halsin came to mind.

Cubs, my heart? What wonderful news!.

Tav shut her eyes and gulped at the thought, only glad that Gortash hadn't noticed. She wanted the images to stop, the voices to go away. She wanted silence again.

And she could think of only one way to do that right now.

"If you change your mind," she said, "I--you know where to find me."

He didn't respond, and despite everything it grated at her. Was she not worth even looking at, now he had what he wanted? Perhaps now he had her alone, he could stop pretending he actually wanted this as well. She was only there as a tool, after all, a part of his plan to continue ruling over Baldur's Gate. The blessed lady to do the charity he had no desire to involve himself in. Eventually he would need an heir, and perhaps THEN--

If I am going to be stuck with this horrible man I have to at least make him want me.

She hated Gortash, hated all that he was and did, but she hated the idea of being alone even more. Being alone meant quiet, and quiet meant that thoughts of her two loves would drift in. And that--

Darling, you can't pine over us forever, Astarion's voice seemed to sound off in Tav's head as she retreated to her room. I know I'm worth remembering, but you never smile when you think of me now.

Nor I. It is the way of nature to take after giving. Let us go, Halsin's voice echoed soon after. Let us go, thrive, and make good from all the bad you find yourself surrounded with. As you always do.

Her own room was smaller, if a little less richly decorated than Gortash's. There were spiderlike touches in the curtains of the bed and one of the rugs, and everything in general seemed to have a darker tone. Someone had been told to do some work, clearly, and had probably heard "drow" and gone off that alone.

"M'lady?"

The voice belonged to a maid who appeared to be dusting the desk in the corner. A chubby dwarf woman, who gave a quick bow when Tav looked at her.

"And--who are you?"

"Berlina, m'lady," the woman said, "Your chambermaid. His lordship wanted things made ready for you, and I was handling that, only I didn't--expect you would be here so early. That is, I thought you would be...busy."

"His lordship is tired out from the day," Tav said, inwardly hating how easy it was to slip into this role, "If you're not done cleaning, that's fine, I have spent long enough on the road that anything is cleaner than a tent."

"If you'd like a bath, one's being drawn now."

The second she was able, she went right to the bath, whereupon she cleaned up and tried not to relax too much.

Imagine the trouble we could get into here...

I would never feel comfortable here. Give me a river and a bar of soap, I need no tub but what nature provides.

Again, the voices, and again, the stab of pain. Tav sucked in a sharp breath and tried not to focus on them as she washed up. She looked instead at the advancing loss of her dark skin...it had stopped when she hit adulthood, but since the tadpole got into her head there had been an additional loss of color around her hands. The fingers of her left hand had lost their color entirely, where before there had been at least some drow-dark skin and her thumb had been wholly so.

On her legs, her stomach, even her face, the spreading loss was obvious.

Your skin is beautiful, my heart.

Our patchwork doll, Astarion's voice followed up. It only showed the world that the bear and I had something special.

"Just leave me be," Tav said quietly, rubbing her eyes, "Why do you haunt me still?"

Because you will not let us go.

She finished bathing and dried off. The moment she had fastened the belt of the robe she'd grabbed Berlina reappeared.

"M'lady, I'm sorry to bother you, but--"

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, no," she said, "Only, his lordship--ah--has requested your company."

That didn't take long. Perhaps he realized what he was missing, turning you down.

Tav took a deep breath and crossed her bedroom to walk back into Gortash's, though she half expected this to be a ruse for...something, she wasn't sure what. She kept one hand behind her back as she walked back in, ready to cast a spell...just in case. No armor, and nothing but the robe and the choker with the netherstone. She felt more bare than she actually was...

Gortash was no longer at the desk in his full and regular armor, or robe, or whatever it had been. He was on the other side of the bed, leaning back against it as she had done.

Only now, he wasn't in his usual robe.

Just a pair of black trousers.

(She hated the stirring thought that the sight of his bare chest gave.)

"You changed your mind," Tav said flatly, "One might wonder why."

She refused to look at him, but walked slowly forward.

"One might wonder why all the fools of this city are not as...compliant...as you. Perhaps I simply needed a reminder of that in the form of...well, it's not your concern, really." There was a definite smugness in Gortash's tone, "Do you so eagerly offer yourself up to every man you meet? Should I be worried that my new wife will consider a career at Sharess's Caress?"

"I made vows. I intend to keep them."

There was a pause. Gortash seemed to be waiting for something.

"Do as you wish," Tav finally said, "So long as I don't have to look you in the eye."

"Drop the robe."

His tone was not especially cruel, but definitely meant to remind her which of them was in charge. He'd said he wouldn't mistreat her, so why--?

He's one of THOSE types, she realized. I can work with this.

Tav untied the belt of her robe and shrugged it off. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her now wearing only the velvet necklace that held the netherstone. The look of appraisal was followed soon after by a wicked grin.

When she stepped forward again, Gortash's hands came up and pulled her close against him, directly into a heated kiss--

The bridge is crossed, the thought came. You can't go back now.

Tav returned the kiss somewhat gingerly, moving her hands up to his shoulders as the taste of the wine they'd both drunk crossed her tongue once again. He raised his hands to the back of her head, keeping her in place as his tongue pushed past her lips, tangling--

He broke the kiss just as she was about to, let them both breathe, and moved in again.

It was more fervent this time, and repeated when she broke for air again, and then the third time too. When she pulled back a fourth time he smirked against her lips, "I wonder what else that mouth can do?"

"Whatever you want it to do," Tav said quietly, "Or did you call me in here just to admire the thing you put your name on?"

Oh, very good, kitten...

"I remain shocked," Gortash growled, but not in an angry way, as his hands moved down to her hips and squeezed tightly at her ass, "That you weren't already working at Sharess's Caress."

She was pulled closer still, and at this point if she had remained unconvinced he preferred women, the bulge in his trousers would have done the job.

"They've already got a couple drow anyway."

Be witty. Be compliant, but resist just slightly, to keep him wanting. Make him happy, and you'll have the only friend that matters in this wretched city.

The dominant is dominant for a reason, after all.

"Kneel," he said suddenly, "And show me why I've made a good choice."

As she obeyed his hands were back up. As she shifted to get into a comfortable position there was the sound of his belt, which dropped to the floor soon after. The trousers lowered just enough--

"How long are you going to make me wait?" she asked.

Gortash silenced her a moment later by pressing the tip of his cock to her lips. One hand, the hand with his glove, moved to the back of her head and gripped--but not painfully--at her hair.

Tav hesitated only a moment. Then she wrapped her lips around the tip and slowly moved her head down until she'd taken all of him. He moaned softly, and as she started to move he didn't seem to feel the need to do anything more.

"Ahh, yes, good," he groaned, "We are going to be quite happy...I can see that\."

(She hated--hated, hated--how wet she already was.)

Tav groaned around his cock and began to bob her head more quickly. He groaned and his fingers tightened, bringing with them a slight sting in the back of her head. She expected him to make some quip about how she must have done this for someone else--but he didn't.

She pulled back, teased at the underside of his cock's head with her tongue, and was rewarded with another groan. Then she moved back down again, but more slowly than before.

"So--eager--"

When she'd taken all of him, her nose pressed firmly against his lower abdomen, she heard something else. Something low, a whisper she was obviously not meant to hear.

"Gods..."

The grip in her hair turned to iron, and Tav would have smirked had her mouth not been otherwise occupied. A moment later, he started moving against her head, not letting her do the work any longer.

"You are...a talented woman...aren't you?"

Tav couldn't answer.

"I wonder what those companions of yours would say if they could see you now," Gortash's voice was less shaky here. More certain, more devious. "On your knees...for ME."

Another pause, a pull back that let her breathe, that let a dangling string of pre hang in the barest distance between her lips and the tip of his cock.

"They would think you'd made me do it."

"Perhaps. But I'm not making you do any of this." He paused and started speaking again, punctuating each word with another thrust. "Yet. here. we. ARE."

Tav thought he would keep going, and brought her tongue up as best she could, hoping to have him finish now from its caresses over him. But as he pulsed in her mouth, the very second she thought he would finish--

Gortash pulled back, exposing his by now well-sucked cock to the open air.

She breathed hard for a few moments.

"Up--" he demanded quickly, "--now."

Tav stood, then found herself suddenly turned and pressed against the edge of the bed. A slight lift and now she was seated on it. He spread her legs, brought his other hand forward--

Do it quickly. I want to be senseless. I want to--

For just a moment there was a sensation of horror.

You want to forget us, my pet?

The first stroke of his fingers found her wet and ready, and she loathed how good they felt against her. The first moan she could suppress easily, but when in his slow exploration he brushed over her clit--

--her body jerked involutarily, and the moan would not be held back so easily.

"Mmm," Gortash gave a dark chuckle against her jaw as his fingertips pressed against the spot again, "So that's where it is."

A firmer touch now, a press down, and Tav choked back a groan he still half-heard, as well as a sudden sharp breath he definitely did.

"Already willing," he said, stroking steadily now, whispering in her ear with his five o' clock shadowed cheek pressed against her smooth one, "Already eager. How long have you wanted this?"

"Stop--teasing--"

"That's half the fun," he replied, seeming amused at how tightly Tav was gripping the sheets beneath her. "And if you hadn't done your job so well, perhaps I'd indulge in it more."

Those fingers, those devilish fingers, he pushed them forward, knuckle-deep, in one swift movement.

"Oh..." Tav didn't even bother trying to hold back the moan then.

(For a moment...just a moment, the pleasure blocked out all the unpleasantness that threatened to drown her mind)

"Tell me...you want it," Gortash whispered slowly, "Or is this all an act?"

Back his hand came, leaving her empty--empty, and infuriatingly needy. She hated him and craved him by turns.

"I've changed my mind," he said, pressing closer, his cock not an inch away from thrusting inside her, "This is the moment that makes me ask what they would think."

Gortash gave her no time to reply. A breath later he thrust forward, and Tav let out a moan that would make the brothels proud. Then a whimper at his size, the way his cock stretched her.

(She'd taken bigger, why was he--)

It was overwhelming, the sudden rush of pleasure, and it only grew as he began to thrust in earnest. She let herself fall back and look up at him in a haze of lusty heat, almost welcomed the touch of his hands on her breasts, the hard thrust that practically took her breath away.

Harder, she thought, Take the pain away. Make the voices leave me be.

As if he'd heard her, Gortash started to move more quickly.

"Gods--"

It was her who said it this time, but she couldn't even try to keep it quiet.

(The voices were finally gone)

Tav felt the end leap and then fall away suddenly. A moment later Gortash's hands were on either side of her head and he'd come down, his chest pressed close against hers; his lips hovering and ghosting his breath hotly over her neck. She crossed her legs behind him, feeling both the growing tenseness and a growing dread.

This is going to make it real. This is the point of no return.

The thought was momentarily chilling.

If you let him do it--

After a sudden, unbearable plateauing of the ecstasy, it broke all at once. She called out--shuddered beneath him as the fire seized her, brought her to that fine point of the seat of lust for a glorious five or six seconds, and then let her fall away again.

He'd started to move back, but Tav tightened the grip of her legs around him--he gave a sudden strangled groan and then his whole body jerked.

It was over.

They lay there together, breathing hard for a minute or two before Gortah stood back up and withdrew from her.

Tav couldn't make herself look at him, was glad he didn't seem interested in making her.

You let him spill inside you. You can't go back now.

"Well," he mused in a tired voice that sounded nevertheless highly pleased, "If that is what my lady brings to the table, she shall find her lord an eager lover indeed."

What would they think of you now, if they saw you? They'd be disgusted with you, as they should be, she thought.

"Come now, my lady," Gortash said, "We should get some rest. I believe we've had enough excitement for one day. But...do be sure and let me know if you'd like any more."

Gods, I hate you, Tav thought, but when a stab of guilt pierced her mind, she could only add, But I think I hate myself more.

[killiansprincss]

TIMELESS - A NEW CAPTAIN SWAN FIC 5/19

Summary: Season 3 divergence - When Zelenas time portal works, Henry wakes up alone in Storybrooke and must travel to the Enchanted Forest to get his family back. Only once he gets there he quickly realises its not like the one in his book, theres no Evil Queen and his mother Emma wasn't put through a wardrobe, theres even a poster inviting the entire kingdom to her engagement ball, to Hook. What will happen once Henry gets them to break this new curse and they get their memories back?

In which every chapter is based on a Taylor Swift song

Previous Chapters | AO3

CHAPTER 5 - THE BEST DAY

I don't know why all the trees change in the fall

But I know you're not scared of anything at all

Don't know if Snow White's house is near or far away

But I know I had the best day with you today

Henry. Storybrooke. Home. Zelena. Time Portal. Enchanted Forest.

Emma felt as though she had just woken up from the craziest dream, which in a sense, she had. “Wh-What happened?” She wraps her arms around her son and kisses his head, how did he end up here all alone?

“I’m not exactly sure. I woke up at the hospital and everyone was gone. I think Zelena’s time portal worked.” Henry explains

Emma nods her head at her son, trying to make sense of this situation. “It definitely worked. I grew up here and there’s no talk of a Dark Curse or an Evil Queen.”

Too many lives now existed within her head, the one where she grew up an orphan and then gave Henry away, and then a fake life where she and Henry made it on their own and now this time altering life where she grew up happy and a princess. Emma looks over at her brother, who in her original timeline had only just been born. “You were a baby.” She mumbles to herself. “This must be pretty crazy for you right now.”

Leo just shrugs, “I’ve learnt to expect the unexpected in this family. When a 14 year old boy that looks like you and knows way too much about our family and says he’s your son, I realised crazier things have happened.”

Her baby brother. When her parents told her she was having a baby brother she hated the idea. But then when he was born she adored him, she loved watching him grow up, she remembers watching him walk for the first time and the first words he spoke. She was a teenager exploring herself and navigating the life of a royal but when her baby brother toddled into her room when she was having lessons she couldn’t help the smile on her face. He began to irritate her as he got into childhood with his grabby hands on her dress and coming into her room uninvited and unannounced. But the past few years now he had grown into his teens he’d become her friend, she was there for him when he fell off his horse and they would talk for hours after the balls about how boring they were or how a certain duke or prince would fall over themselves to talk to her. He was real. Her little brother was real to her and the fact a life existed without him was strange.

“We need a plan. I’m assuming I’m the only person, aside from maybe Rumple and Zelena, who isn’t cursed. How do we un-curse everybody?” Emma asks in hope that Henry already had a full plan in action.

Biting his lip and avoiding his mother’s eye contact Henry tells her, “Well I thought you giving me True Love's Kiss again might work, but maybe we need something else. I thought we could go on an adventure just the two of us like old times. Find out more and see if we can find Zelena maybe. Tell her that we’re here to stop her.”

Emma’s heart soars, she realises how scary it must have been for Henry waking up all alone. “There is nothing I’d love more Henry, but in this life I’m the Princess not the Sheriff or the Saviour so I can’t just run off with you at the drop of a hat without raising suspicion.”

“I’ll cover for you.” Leo offers. “I’m used to covering for you. I’ll tell them you had an urgent wedding matter or something.”

Wedding. To Killian-Hook. Fuck.

“Yeah Mom, I was wondering about that.” Henry says with a huge smirk across his face. “In our timeline she pretends to hate him even though she enjoys his constant flirting-nice to see he wore her down here.” He says to Leo who looks happy and ready to converse about his sister's love life.

When he was awake she was going to murder him. There was no way the two of them meeting was accidental, of all the women to meet in a tavern, of all the balls to crash it was hers. She found it very hard to believe he gave up everything that easily, just a promise of her hand in marriage. He had to have been working with Zelena.

_____

Henry and Emma leave in a carriage just before day break, apparently Leo caught one of the guards in an uncompromising position and owed him a favour. The guard was more than happy to drive them north In the middle of the night no questions asked.

“The last anyone heard of the Dark One was when I was very young. Nobody has heard from him in a decade, apparently he was training an apprentice in the wastelands to the north was the last place anyone had heard from him. Considering that was years ago, I think it’s best to assume it’s Zelena.” Emma explains as they ride out of the gates of the castle.

“So we get as far north as we can, see if anyone knows anything or has heard anything.” Henry offers, “Grandpa will have strong magic that will block the entrance to wherever he and Zelena are hiding, like in Harry Potter where Muggles can’t see Hogwarts.”

Emma cringes at the grandpa's comment, her mind wants to erase her family’s complicated family tree. But, if a part of Gold still remembered who he was-well she would never use him as leverage-but the dark one would be more inclined to help or believe them. “We can’t go in the northern wastelands Henry, they’re wastelands.”

“Any chance you have a map of this place?” Henry asks and Emma laughs until she realises he’s serious.

“I’ve read stories about this place and now I get to experience it. I want to know everything about this place.” From the gleam in his eye, you’d think he was a kid at Disney World.

“I can’t believe you want a history lesson right now.” She smiles, she missed him, she didn’t realise how much she had missed him until now. How many times she would see something or overhear a story and know in the back of her mind there was someone who would appreciate it, even if she didn’t know who.

“I’ve listened to stories about this place for years, I’ve read every inch of that Storybook and now I’m here. I want to know everything.”

Emma ruffles her son's hair as she gives a brief history lesson. “There are 8 kingdoms, Misthaven which is our kingdom being the largest. There were 10 kingdoms a few hundred years ago but now they’re called the Wastelands as they abused their magic and they fall to the North of Misthaven, which is where Rumples castle is likely to be located.” She gives him a brief overview of the differences between the kingdoms and who their monarchs are until Henry eventually doses off.

Listing the features of the place she considered home jut confused her more.

She was Emma Swan. The saviour.

But she was also

Emma of Misthaven. A Princess .

Who was also due to be married to Captain Hook in a few short weeks. After they had been together, secretly and then not so secretly for almost 6 years.

She has no idea what Ki-Hook, did or said to Zelena as how else does she explain almost marrying him?

Before they were unwillingly dragged into her time portal, things with Hook were strange. They’d kissed in Neverland and Emma had wanted to do that again. As much as she hated to admit it, he understood her, when they were in Neverland she felt as though nobody knew how she felt but him and that scared her. He came back to save her in New York, he risked it all to save her when she didn’t even have her memories, nobody had ever gone to the lengths for her that he did. She was afraid, thats what it boiled down to. In this life she didn’t need to be afraid, her parents didn’t abandon her and her ex boyfriend didn’t leave her.

It suddenly makes sense though, why they felt drawn to one another. Though she was sure they had never met before, something in her gut told her she knew him.

He clearly knew her. Why else would Captain Hook be interested in a random princess he met in a tavern after escaping her dungeon? No way would the most fearsome pirate in all the land give up piracy for a woman?

Not that she cared. Those were false memories. She was cursed.

But then again, if Leo was real. And the love she felt and had with her parents was real.

No. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of his blue eyes and dark hair. Her hands roaming his chest under all that leather. How the taste of his lips feel. The way he makes her moan when he does that thing with his mouth.

She falls asleep thinking about his proposal. When he mentioned running away together and Emma leaving the kingdom she thought he was crazy. She couldn’t imagine actually running away and leaving everything behind. But she loved him. And love makes you do crazy things. So after a few days of going over and over in her head, she went back and told him she did want to run away with him, leave Misthaven. Show her parents that this was what she wanted, not to be a Queen married to someone she barely knows let alone loves, always having to hold her tongue, not allowed to have any real opinions if they don’t benefit the kingdom.

He got down on one knee that night on the deck of the Jolly Roger and asked her to marry him. It was a proposal and a promise. He proposed using his brother's ring, the one who died in Neverland. Emma didn’t understand the severity of what happened to his brother until now. She would listen to stories of Neverland and what an awful place it was, but Emma now knew just how horrible it was.

_______

Henry wakes up to the sounds of swords clashing outside his window. What was happening?

No. Not his window. The carriage window.

He opens his eyes and focuses on what’s going on outside the carriage window.

The guard who was driving them north was fighting with a man who had the hood of his cloak up so nobody could see his face and he had a quiver of arrows on his back and a sword with no sheath, indicating the arrows were his usual weapon and the sword was stolen.

Emma finally opens the door and kicks the hooded man to the ground. “Please. We have no money and no jewels. I’m just a mother who is travelling with her son.”

Their carriage driver runs off into the trees as the hooded man stands up and they get a look at his face.

“My apologies. I thought this was a royal carriage.” He extends his hand to Emma and she notices a lion tattoo on his arm. “The names Robin.”

“Robin Hood?” Henry asks, despite being cursed he remembers him, and the things he caught him doing with Regina.

Robin nods. “Robin of Sherwood, or some know me by Robin Hood yes. My apologies again.”

“Why were you trying to rob a royal carriage?” Emma asks, careful not to be too trusting considering she had no clue what role Robin played in this realm.

“I target royal carriages as they carry excessive jewels and money they don’t need. There are people in these villages who need their money and jewels far more than they do. My wife and I can barely afford to feed ourselves, but there are some families with young children and no money to buy clothes or toys.”

“Steal from the rich and give to the poor.” Henry whispers. Turns out Robin Hood from this reality was pretty similar to the one they met in Storybrooke.

“May I ask, if you’re not royal what are you doing? As I’ve robbed my fair share of royal carriages and yours is very similar.”

“My son and I have been sent by our Kingdom to seek out information on the Dark One. Or even better if someone knows anything about a witch named Zelena.” The whole reason for their mission was to find out if anyone knew something and who knows what Robin may know.

The mention of The Dark One makes anyone look uneasy, but at the mention of Zelena’s name he went deathly pale. “If you come with me, I know someone who may know exactly what you’re looking for.”

Emma and Henry look at one another relieved, they were getting somewhere. “Thank you.”

They follow Robin for a couple miles to his home. It’s pretty small, and in a large village of similar sized houses. It’s a shock for Henry, who was used to much grander houses in Storybrooke with running water and electricity. To Emma, it's not much of a shock considering she grew up in a house not too dissimilar to this in this reality for the first 9 years of her life.

“Are you there my love?” Robin calls out as they walk through the door.

“In the kitchen.” A woman’s voice calls back. A familiar voice.

They follow Robin into the only other room in the small hut to find a tall slim woman with dark hair with her back to them. Only Henry would recognise her anywhere.

“Regina my love.” Robin kisses her cheek softly. “I brought guests.”

Regina smiles sweetly. Which was scary. Emma had never seen the woman so humane. She squeezes Henry’s hand whose heart must be beating a million beats a minute. “Welcome, it’s always nice to have guests. What are your names?

“Thank you for inviting us Robin, you have a lovely home.” Panic mode, Emma hadn’t thought about names-they’d have to use aliases but what?

“My name is Harry, and this is my mother Leia.” Henry offers. Really kid-Harry Potter and Star Wars?

Henry gives her a look as if to say ‘what would you have said?’

“They have questions about the Dark One. And specifically his involvement with your sister.” Robin tells Regina.

Regina just nods. “Well you better sit down for dinner then.”

So she knew Zelena was her sister in this reality. Was Regina the one who was given up then?

Emma and Henry sit down and are served an Enchanted Forest delicacy that Henry hadn’t had the luck of trying yet. Lucky him. It’s not exactly roast beef or hamburgers from Grannys. ‘Lamb’ stew with vegetables and potatoes. Except Emma isn’t too sure it is lamb, but she had grown accustomed to the taste and the texture. They had been driving all day and were starving though so they had no choice.

Henry looks disgusted but tries his best to eat it. Especially as his other mother served it to him unknowing of her relationship to him. It didn’t feel right, seeing his mother look at him but not see him. But Henry couldn’t risk anything but seeing if she remembers any part of him at all. She was the only link to Zelena, and if Henry started talking nonsense about being her son she would kick them out.

“So what is it that my sister has done to you?” Regina asks as she sits at the table next to Robin, who was her husband in this reality. Not surprising in all honesty, even in her cursed state he could see something was going on with Robin.

“She cursed the people in our kingdom to forget who they are. We fear she has something larger at bay with the help of the Dark One.” Emma tells her as she tucks into the stew.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. I have heard rumours of the things she has done to people, but hearing it first hand is heartbreaking.”

“We didn’t know she had a sister.” Emma mentions, hoping to hear more about this reality and why Regina isn’t a raging murderous bitch.

“Not many know that she has a sister, and I can’t imagine she ever mentions me.” Regina says, and it’s freaking Emma out how kind and nice she’s being. She’s far from the Evil Queen in this reality. “My mother, Cora, she found herschelf unmarried and pregnant was taken pity on by a Princess from a northern kingdom, and sent her to my grandfather's kingdom in the west. She was able to work and gave birth to Zelena whilst being able to look after her at the same time. She met my father, the Prince of that kingdom and he fell in love with her, he would always make excuses to need his sheets washed just to see her for a few moments a day.” The way Regina talks about her mother is very different, almost fondly. “Anyway, my grandfather eventually found out about their affair and told her she could never marry his son, that’s when she told him she was able to spin straw into gold.”

Emma had a feeling where this story was going.

“That’s when she met The Dark One. He taught her everything and my parents were able to marry. I was born just over a year later. Zelena and I were so close growing up but when we were of age, the Dark One, he began to teach us magic. My sister was gifted and the prodigy my mother hoped she’d be. It took me longer to even conjure a fireball, so his attention quickly began to focus on my sister. After a few years of being left on the sideline, I ran away. Sick of magic, I didn’t need it and it was awful-my mother used magic on me as punishment when I was growing up, and I’d seen the awful things it had done-I didn’t want to be that person. After a while of hiding out in the woods I met Robin, and the rest is well, history.”

She seemed happier. And not just because of Robin. Regina didn’t have magic in this life, and she’d never become the Evil Queen. She’d found Robin and started a life with him, away from magic and away with any evil. Was it cruel to eventually wake her up from this?

“Do you know where she currently is?” Emma asks.

Regina shakes her head. “I pride myself on not knowing her whereabouts but I imagine it’s somewhere in the northern mountains.”

“Have you tried a True Love's Kiss?” Emma raises her eyebrow at Robin before he explains, “I’m not sure what sort of memory curse your kingdom is under, but I’ve heard that True Love's Kiss can break any curse.”

That’s right. True Love’s Kiss. Her parents were never under a sleeping curse in this reality. They never had to fight for their love. “You might be onto something. But I believe it’s the King and Queen your sister is targeting with her curse, and I can only assume they’ve kissed, how can we get them to break the curse?”

“Sleeping curse.” Henry mutters. “They would have to be under a sleeping curse, correct?”

Regina nods. “You're a very bright boy Harry. It sounds like to give your kingdom their memories back, you need a sleeping curse.”

“That requires magic though. And nobody in our kingdom possesses such a kind.” As a result of not being the saviour in this reality, it also meant Emma had no magic. “Regina, is there any way you could maybe lend us some? If you had it in the past, I’m sure you could find a way to-“

“With all due respect, why would I help you?” Regina days cutting her off. That’s more like the Regina they know. “I’m sorry about your kingdom, but I haven’t touched magic in a long time and I don’t want to tap back into that darkness for two people I just met. I think you should leave.”

Knowing not to argue with her, Emma politely agrees and lets Robin show them the way out.

“Before you go.” Robin whispers. “My wife doesn’t have magic, but she does know more about where the Dark One resides. He has a castle up in the northern mountains, it borders the wastelands, it’s about three days from here. Good luck with your mission.”

Three days? They were running on a limited time schedule as it was. Three days there, and then the journey back?

“Got any bright ideas kid? Other than screaming Bloody Mary into a mirror 3 times?” She asks as a joke, except Henry’s eyes light up. “No. No. We are not doing that.”

“How else do you expect us to get information? We have to summon him.” Henry had met Mr. Gold, the pawnshop owner of Storybrooke who also happened to be his grandfather. Though Emma herself hadn’t met the Dark One in this reality, she had heard stories of the things he did to people and his ways of torturing. Hell she had learnt through Hook what he did to his ex wife. She didn’t know how it was going to turn out, she had to keep Henry safe.

“How do we even get him? We don’t exactly have his dagger? Dark one I summon thee? Would that even work?”

Mother and son hear a giggle behind them and look at one another before slowly turning their heads behind them to see Rumplestilskin. In all his crocodile skin glory.

“Dark One.” Emma breathes, a mixture of fear and amazement in her voice.

“The very one dearie.” He grins playfully. “What can I do for you, witch?”

Emma debates in her head what to say, how do you say you want a sleeping curse? And no way he'd give it to them.

“We need magic to save our kingdom.” Henry pipes up, eagerness getting the better of him.

“What does a Princess need with magic?” The Dark One asks, causing Emma to raise her eyebrow at him. “Oh yes I know who you are, Princess Emma of Misthaven. But I don’t know you.” He wiggles his finger at Henry, this version was a lot more theatrical than the one they knew in storybrooke.

Henry looks at his grandfather, with his scaly skin and his cane nowhere in sight. This wasn’t his grandfather, this was The Dark One who made deals and tortured people. His breath hitches he can barely speak, “I’m nobody. Just someone who needs magic to help bring my family back.”

“People in my kingdom have been cursed and they have lost their memories. I need magic to help bring their memories back.” Emma explains, hoping somewhere deep inside that Rumplestiltskin isn't the victim of this curse too.

Rumple prowls around the two, as if sizing them up or as if he was trying to read their minds. “And what manner of magic are we talking about here? You seem very confident that magic will solve this little problem. And why come to me at all? I’m sure Misthaven has someone who could give you a potion or an elixir.”

Struggling to keep her eyes on the Dark One as he keeps moving around, Emma decides on her lie. “My kingdom is scared of magic, most of them don’t trust it which is why it was easy for a witch to take their memories. I studied magic in secret, I don’t have any physical powers but I learnt the study of sorcery and magic from books in my library. I know that any curse can be broken with True Love’s Kiss, which is why I need a sleeping curse so that the curse can be broken. I’ve heard rumours you dabble with sleeping curses.”

Rumple fixates on Emma for a second, almost expecting her to break, but she remains strong. “And you have a victim in mind for this sleeping curse?”

Emma nods. “Yes. They may not have had any magic confirmation but I believe they are the epitome of True Love and a kiss will break the curse and bring back their memories.”

“And why aren’t you still a victim to this curse?”

Shit. She hadn’t thought about that. “I honestly cannot tell you for sure why. But I believe I regained my memories for a reason, I think it’s my fate to save my kingdom.” While she wasn’t the saviour in this realm, she was still the saviour of Storybrooke and she had to bring them home.

Emma isn’t sure if it’s a smile, a grin or a smirk that crosses his face when she mentions saving her kingdom, but Rumple was willing to help. “Very well dearie.” And with a wave of his hand an Apple suddenly appears in Emma’s hand.

“An Apple?” Emma’s eyebrows raise at Rumple, he had to know, even if he wasn’t showing it. This is too much of a coincidence.

“Most common form of a sleeping curse, other than a spinning needle. Just give this to your unsuspecting victim and they will fall into a deep slumber until their true love wakes them up.” There was a gleam in his eyes that made Emma think he knew, he must know.

“Thank you.” She says before he disappears in the blink of an eye.

“He knows.” Henry states as Emma just stands there going over what just happened.

“You think?” Emma couldn’t be sure, there were too many coincidences, but then again what was his plan if he was helping Zelena?

“He willingly gave us an apple for a sleeping curse with almost no questions asked. I think grandpa is still in there.” Henry was positive, he had to be. He’d made it to the Enchanted Forest by himself to save his family, and now he has to believe his grandpa knew who he was and that was why he was willing to help.

___

“So what is the plan now that we have the apple?” Henry asks his mother once they’re back in their carriage on the way back to the kingdom. Henry was on top of it, he always needed a plan.

“Well, I’m getting Gregory to drop you off just before the gates so we don’t raise suspicions and Leo will meet you in the stables, he’ll disguise you as one of his servants and then we can figure out how to get her to eat the apple.”

“Grandpa needs to be away!” Henry blurts out as if a lightbulb just went off in his head. “In the original timeline, Gramps had to find her before he could wake her up. What if that needs to happen again this time?”

“You’re right.” Emma says as she opens up the storybook to the right page, seeing the quest her father went on before-trapped by Regina and then slaying Maleficent. “Well we don’t have an evil queen to trap him, but he does have a trip coming up. We can poison Snow send word to dad, that way he’s going on a journey to come and save her. We can call it Operation Scorpion?

Henry just laughs at his mother’s suggestion.

“No? Okay how about Operation Python?” She suggests, smiling at Henry’s unenthusiastic face.

[kihakugato-art]

The Harriet Pinup Art Project

Session 0- goals and preparation

Out of the sessions this one will probably be the wordiest- my apologies that I can't break it apart with more images! Hopefully the future sessions will have more show and less tell.

Goal for this project-

To make a good enough quality artpiece that it could be printed as a poster or print. I won’t end up making it an actual print since it entails some considerations I’d rather not mess with, but I’d like to at least push my art to that quality. This is my loftiest of my goals but a goal nonetheless.

To finish this piece within the month of September. It’d be nice to get it done sooner, and its equally possible that I may end up finishing it later than that, but I want to take my time with this piece for longer than I normally would for an art piece. I rarely work on my pieces for longer than a week on average.

What is the planned setting/composition for the pinup?

A candid of Harriet sitting on the edge of the deck of her ship (or off of a dock) all chill albeit possibly mischievous. She will likely be holding/eating a grilled fish on a skewer, giving lowkey implication that she snatched/stole it out from the ship’s kitchen/BBQ before mealtime.

The outfit will preferably have shorts/daisy dukes, a top of some sorts, draconian features out (so her lil penguin wings and her long flippered tail, maybe also feathered webbed hands/feet) in her human form for added interest, with a shirtless/tits-out as an additional outfit variant (I hope to come out of this project with at least 2 different versions- a sfw and more nsfw version). Her happy trail must be in view as well as her chest to add to the pinup-ness.

I may also give a canon-compliant colour pallete (so the teal/red/white) for her outfit as well as a non-compliant variant (the colour those clothes would be normally in the real world) depending on how well the colours compliment her.

Inspiration-

Of all things, the one that finally motivated me to think of taking a crack at it, it was the Brazillian Miku art trend. Created by ErinArtista (artpiece link X).

Tanned skin, teal hair, tomboyish energy, the parallels to Harriet are very similar which made it hard not to think about her when seeing the trend spread in full force.

The version that really got me thinking of Harriet in such an outfit was by irreligiositat (artpiece link X) which gave the interpretation of Miku having a big teal happy trail. Being Harriet has a blue-green happy trail herself, it caused the final mental click.

[image source]

Before this I had previously thought about drawing Harriet in “sexy” outfits- especially Mordred’s shorts/coat outfit (no surprise since I credit Mordred for being some of the inspiration for Harriet).

Although other OCs in a pinup artpiece have crossed my mind before, Harriet has always been the easiest to imagine; she canonically sometimes straight-up walks around shirtless or nude out on the deck of her own ship simply cause she’s the carefree type to do so! No other OC of mine is that bold (barring some WIP NSFW OCs that are still baking in the brain oven).

As I’ve been feeling more comfortable/bolder I have grown more motivated to explore this kind of art.

Preparations

Inspiration/reference board/folder

Collect images to assist in compiling/understanding the art being created. I don’t do this too often unless I’m very uncertain about certain details for the art piece. Also being I don’t draw often enough the references help give some guidelines for the brain to follow.

[yes I am well aware of how sus the third folder looks- don't make me bonk you for the obvious]

While the number of folders/images may grow as this project progresses, I am currently starting with 4 folders with 49 different images total; A folder for backgrounds, cooked/skewered fish, outfits (particularly daisy dukes- cause I had some confusion on certain art depictions of them that I had to get clarified on), and various sitting poses that come close to what I’m after. Also Harriet’s reference sheet so we can keep more inline with the iconography of her design (and also help when we get to including her draconic features since I’m not used to drawing a transitional form).

Canvas preparation and tutorials

I’m starting this on Clip Studio Paint with A4 paper dimensions (albiet with a stupidly large canvas size to avoid accidentally drawing too small) with 300 resolution.

For tutorials I am currently starting with only one- how to use 3D models in CSP, since I have never used this feature before, and I feel this could be extremely helpful on quickly getting an idea of what will look best for this composition.

Pretty cut and dry overview, even if it’s a lot of new information to take in. In the future I may use the fancier features of it such as making specific body types (meaning I have help with grasping Demauria and Riivar’s absurd height differences) but for this project we will start/stick to the default body even though it’s not quite accurate

With the new information I imported a female 3D model from the materials section, and selected one of the sitting presets to get started with.

I also imported the top poses from my inspo board onto the canvas so that I can quickly reference from them while working on messing with the 3D model.

Depending on how well I can mess with the poses I may even do more than one 3D’d pose so that I can compare/contrast which I’d prefer for this piece.

[Session 1] [Session 2]

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

2023 Movie Journey #3: Elvis

elvis. i watched this with @actuallylukedanes​, which is the only reason it landed so early in my viewing this year. it was on my list but not a high priority at all: obviously i love tom hanks but i knew he wasn’t playing his lovable usual here, and i really have no feelings towards elvis either way. i barely grew up aware of who he was, my exposure to him was entirely secondhand through an episode of designing women and a john waters movie that i imprinted on like a baby duck when i was way too young to be watching a john waters movie (and which i can never enjoy again cuz now Some Things ruin my childhood retroactively).

so honestly, the only reason this movie went on my list is because i read a long profile about it that was really about baz luhrmann, and because moulin rouge was like a gift he gave just to me that lasts forever, i’ll give anything he makes a chance. once i was reconsidering my disinterest in the subject matter, the plan to watch it with leander sealed the deal. 

putting it behind a cut even though i have less to say about it than some other movies, because it really...wasn’t good, exactly. i wouldn’t say it was bad, either, but it was structured really similarly to every other biopic, which surprised me. the visuals were baz luhrmann all the way, but other than deciding to make this a story of ‘elvis through the lens of the complicated figure whose presence both made him and doomed him’ (as opposed to just centering the story on freaking elvis, whose name is on the poster!) his life and career story is told almost identically to how they framed the whitney houston biopic i saw. start near the end, then take us back to the origin story, and eventually make it back to where you started after showing how we got there. then conclude with a tragic death (offscreen).

so i mean, the performances were good. i can give the movie full credit for that. austin butler did a good job and is very talented. tom hanks (who i already knew is talented, obviously) really fills up his character so that even though he’s a truly cruel and masterful huckster, there’s still a chance that he might believe his own lies in the end. i didn’t recognize elvis’s father as being played by the duke from moulin rouge but leander did right away, so they get all the points. :) and billy from stranger things was there! wearing eyeliner! he is very pretty in eyeliner and i highly preferred his styling in this to stranger things.

but underneath all the glitz and the big performances, i guess to me the movie just felt so shallow. watching it didn’t make me feel more interested in elvis, though it did make me like austin butler more...and i have to wonder if some of that is because for all its big visuals, this movie didn’t go as big on emotions. 

it is so invested in the character tom hanks plays, but he’s a canny operator with few sincere feelings we can connect to. a lot of elvis’s emotions are all about his love of performing, so we get establishments of his marriage and family but quickly speed past those things to his affairs and eventual divorce. when he loses his mother and when his marriage ends, he’s given about a minute onscreen to mourn each before it’s quite literally back on with the show, prodded forward by gambling-addicted tom hanks.

and so instead of being a movie that explores elvis, exactly, this is a movie where we watch elvis be so often a passive actor in his own life. a young man naively trusting a greedy influence, a lonely man accepting affection from strangers despite its effect on his family, an addicted man taking whatever drugs he’s given to keep moving. it was hard to feel connected to the main character when he was being constantly taken advantage of or only seemed happy onstage and was, in this telling, a star who kept doing whatever he was told no matter how much it hurt. (his very brief rebellious phase before they sent him to basic training was my favorite part of the film. that had some power.)

i can’t help comparing this movie to the whitney houston one because there was such life and joy in that, which gave its sad ending all the more impact. i knew to expect a similar depressing ending for elvis, and yet, this movie held his death at a distance, repeating the framing of tom hanks narrating about elvis in the end. i was glad that the whitney biopic didn’t show her death, and didn’t need to see his--but we could have seen his family and friends reacting, or some moment of him in private, rather than the last shot we got which was literally physically distanced, too. 

using colonel parker they way they did gave tom hanks a lot to do, but it felt like a concept the filmmakers were too excited about as a ‘twist’ to realize that it sapped what makes a biopic great: the force of the star at its center. if they elevated tom hank’s role because they were worried about fully giving austin butler the stage, i don’t think they needed to be. he was a good choice, and i just wish they had trusted him to do more. then maybe i could’ve seen the movie i expected this to be, in which baz luhrmann told me the story of elvis--rather than one where tom hanks did so while defending his villainous actions as he got the last word.

(though technically elvis got the last word in a delightfully predictable post-credits moment and i do give them--ahem--credit for that. and leander more points, for playing that part on purpose.)

in conclusion, not my favorite viewing experience for a lot of different reasons, but i’m still glad i saw it. because austin butler was fun, and, well, baz luhrmann. the man makes the shiniest glittery movies, and i love them so much for existing even when i don’t love them at all.

[stoptellinglieslois]

Love fair

Clark Kent x Richard Grayson

Act 1

As I got up from my slumber I heard the familiar male voice again warm gentle in my mind talking, My mind is still jumbled as memories swarm into my consciousness. As I am being pulled once again into the past.

Walking the market place in town with my family as a prince made things awkward for me as I am usually in disguise wearing peasant clothing. "Come my lord this way." Alfred said as he pulled me away from some merchants and that's when I saw his stand, I froze in place and turned quickly around and started walking in the opposite direction from his stand.

I headed towards the tavern as posters of the jousting tourney this afternoon were splashed across the land, I needed to breath as I walked in the tavern it smelled of strong wine and meal being prepared.

The whole tavern kneel as soon I entered this didn't help as my nerves are being shot, I saw him but this is madness he do's not know who I am nor do's he know that I am his admire he knows nothing of me being royalty.

I was being silly with that thought I grew more confident I found a table as the bar keeper placed food in front of me and wine. Alfred found me and so did my brothers as I watch them coming closer.

I smiled at them as they entered not knowing what to do next as my space has been invaded, I ate and drank what was given to me the beef soup was filling and with the bread it tasted good. "How could you eat here." Jason said as I put him in his place. "These are our people." And it was the end of the discussion I didn't want to talk wrongfully to anyone that could hear us I didn't want anyone feeling like we were passing judgement here.

That's when the fisherman walked in and sat at the table in front of me, I watched in aw as he wore the clothes a few weeks ago that I gifted him, I gaze at him picking him a part I knew this was as close I would get to him as myself.

He was quite man but I always knew that him living by himself, I was being pulled again by him everything else started to fade watching him order food. "Food and drinks on me." I shouted the whole room roared and that got his attention are eyes met for the first time well for him I've been watching him since I was a child.

His dark brown eyes got nervous as I held his gaze for a short moment, And then he looked to the ground I was crushed as he looked away from me I wanted more but I couldn't do that it was not good for me or for him to push anything.

As music played and the peasants are getting more and more animated because of the tourney and perhaps getting more and more drunk I declared to leave as I walked out my brothers followed me out the tavern before I left and went out the door I gave him one last look.

Later on in the tourney I sat there watching men being destroyed as I sat my eyes for no reason skimmed the crowd as I can't believe I spotted him again. I decided that I wanted to participate as well I got up off my seat and left towards the tents where all the lords dukes are preparing for their turn at being dismantled.

"Suit me up." As I exclaimed and I was hurried to be suited.

"Why are you doing this." Jason asked me his face puzzle. "I want to get the attention of the ladies." Jason snorted at me as I was ready and in my armor I was helped on my horse and galloped off it was quick and Lord Oliver won I got up with no damages on me.

The crowd cheered my ego bruised a little I hoped he saw me I took off my helmet my hair going falling past my shoulders, I smiled at the crowd and waved I found him watching me his reaction wasn't like the crowd neutral and passive I wanted to run towards him and tell him I wore this terrible heavy clunky armor for him so I could get his attention.

But instead I walked off and I paused for a bit as I directed my wave towards him, I walked off and to the tent to take off my armor I was spellbound by this man I kept him in a draw and when no one is looking I pull him out and to watch him.

The feast went on that night and that's when I struck again gathering food sometimes herbs and balms wine water soup and sweets I observed he has a sweet tooth, Well tonight was no exception I would ride out into the evening I doubt he was home and I did what I always did and let myself in his home.

I put the food on the table and looked at my hand a big ruby ring was on my index finger I stared at it and took it off and rested it on the table, Beside the food and the herbs It was cold in here he needed to gather wood for a fire I could provide him that some other time.

I looked around his place and snooped around a little but I knew I had to sneak off into the forest. I left him a scribbling note. "I love you." on his bed and left the fisherman's home. I didn't go far watching by the window as he made it home.

I wanted him to read the note but he couldn't read in less I left him a book it would be for children but it was a good start some of those books have illustrations on them. It was a start he picked up the ring I left on the table and he looked at the ring studying it.

I left him and walked off into town I got closer I made it through some alley ways and put my expensive clothes back on and put my peasant ones in a sac. and went in my quarters as I sat on my bed hearing noise and music outside a loud knock at my door. "Enter." Timothy came in my quarters. "Father wants to speak to us there is a big counsel meeting." I got up and walked out my gut feeling was telling me it is about Raz a gul.

I reached the chamber and found all the dukes and knights who came for the festivity now all seated here but where was my grandfather ?

I came in and sat down things were never solved in these meetings. "I've been dealing with this man who's been my rival for many years now, I need a better idea." My father exclaimed in frustration hitting the hard wood table with his fist.

"You are dealing with a king and I do believe for the worst part a wizard and an evil one at that." Prince Hal explained to my father he wanted to leave this meeting I could tell before I got here it was going in circles only a select few would be chosen to be here people who my father can trust.

"I can't believe I let my father deal with him my father is a king but an ignorant king." Agreed.

"I am afraid he will attack us he's a vindictive man." My father said arms crossed and in deep thought. "I beg you pardoned my lords your grace did this really happen with the Persian princess." lord Barry asked suspecting the worse out of this outcome.

My father looked at lord Barry and in his silence everything was revealed my father committed a sin I believe it's the both of them that did wrong here but that was neither here nor there.

I got pulled out of my memory and I got thrust back into the present as I am still in the crypt, I spirited smaller animals to the crypt to regain my force and strength so that I could be my former self I blame the vampire hunter who did this to me a few decades back laced the spire at my side with poison that kept me in this state.

Every time I drink blood I get stronger and stronger my mind gets more and more powerful, I slowly regain what was lost as I build myself up again a sudden voice cross my mind and it was the same warm male voice.

It seemed like there was a debate where young voices are arguing about Tristan and a person called Isolde. I could see what he's seeing and as the children argued he was reading a passage in the book.

I switched the words around in his mind and spelled some words to see if he understood my meaning. { Hello I' am Richard.} I did an illusion of mind It startled him as he threw the book on the floor and stomped on it making the children laugh I heard a loud bell that rang loud and everyone scattered out the door.

Still breathing loudly holding his chest I used telepathy to talk to him. {I am sorry I scared you.} I said in his mind. "Holy jeeze." He responded no one was in the room if he talked to himself no one would question it either.

{I will see you soon.} Is all I could truly muster from the link I have with him my mind starts to drift back into its state of stillness and darkness.

End of act 1 on to act 2

Thank you for reading

[freedformwriter]

Diary of a Baggage Train: Day 2

The mood today is Kate Bush’s stellar 1985 track “Under The Ivy”. I start the day feeling a bit ruined and grey; how perfect that today’s big itinerary item is a ruined castle. Not one of those well-preserved ruins that populate the English Heritage days out. The ones with interpretive signs so that visitors squint and say, yes, I suppose I do see how these few rocks were once a citadel capable of withstanding the Vikings, Normans, or Yorkists. Those are ruins in custody and the authorities allow them, like respectable pensioners, to deteriorate only very slowly. If Drummond Castle were a person, they would be an extravagant society darling whose charming antics became ‘too much’ quite soon. Abandoned by their peers, the rot set in ferociously and their ruin was virtually overnight. From the outside it appears like a Sleeping Beauty castle with the four cylindrical turrets, the cloak of ivy, and the barbed wire perimeter. But, once breached, the bones of a Victorian mediaevalist fancy are obvious. Many of the walls soar up to the treetops, revealing the decadent lines of high ceilings, large picture windows, decorative fireplaces, and the cutoff ends of pipes I imagine once carried hot water to a dozen clawfoot bathtubs.

I’m not alone when I burrow past the Keep Out sign. The tourists are primarily continental, Dutch and German couples who arrive in their left-hand drive vans and a pack of French holidaymakers who make an enormous production of parking their rental fleet in the adjacent field. They are killing my magical commune with the past. Yet when they take their photos and clear off, I’m uneasy. I suddenly fear disorientation. Or absorption. Maybe there is a point to floor plans. I roll my feet softly forward as if one stomp might dislodge the keystone of the whole place. Architectural details take on a dangerous cast: the elegant swoop of stairs that ascends with no support, a dark cavernous hall where the brick roof clings on, a spot where the reclaimed forest floor gives way to the gaping hole down to the cellar level. The crows seem to know just how to time their caws for maximum eery effect.

The tragedy of Drummond Castle is actually distinctly un-gothic. I remind myself of this morning’s reading. After the war, the aristocratic owners removed the roof to void paying tax. Whether the villain of the piece is the hubristic landed class or the Atlee government will depend on who’s telling the tale. According to a woman who helps out at our Drymen B&B, the root cause of the rot was a fallout between the Duke of Montrose and his half brother. The Duke, she declares, is from here and can be seen from time to time in the village. The half brother was never seen in these parts. It’s unclear which brother stripped the shingles, but local loyalties are clear. By the 19th century, the Duke of Montrose owned 100,000 acres of this area, and all the inhabitants were ‘dependent upon the vast influence and affluence’ of the estate. I read this in Drymen’s Millenium Account, a local history compendium awkwardly if inevitably introduced by the current Duke of Montrose. The vast emptying of the Highlands prior to the Victorian era was, he declares, necessary in order to make agricultural improvements and halt the menace of famine. The librarian who gave me the guide apologised she couldn’t provide me with more selection, but she’d packed up the books. Moving? No, just closing. The small space was papered with posters promoting breastfeeding friendly spaces and offering to help families with benefit claims. Three older residents had just come in with cakes for some sort of coffee hour.

At the castle, I fight down the spooked feeling. Obviously, nothing could be more authentically gothic than a heroine fleeing the building fuelled by nothing but her own vague but profound sense of terror, but panic attacks suck. I want to reclaim my initial delight in discovering this out-of-time space. Though the inside and the outside of Castle Drummond merged through the fierce young forest, I find a spot beyond the bounds of the ruins. I lie down on the moss and channel my inner Kate. The ruins don’t send me dream of ghostly shooting parties, with their tailormade tweeds and changes for dinner and long, enervated days spent looking out the window into the wall of rain rolling off the sea. The earth doesn’t echo with the unceasing local labour that built and maintained this palace for the imported aristocratic friends of the Montrose family. Looking up at the new leaves and the old ivy, I sense stillness. And birds, so many birds. The crows, yes, but also a host of lighter notes signalling the same thing: home. Ruined for whom? All at once, I’m happy this place hasn’t survived to be one more tastefully updated hotel with a wet-weather wedding marquee and antiquated plumbing to plague the new owners.

The green on the grey, I feel it all around me.

[mattved]

Gaming

The longer story of how important the role of gaming has been in my life, coping with struggle, and my progression from an awkward kid to a respected professional.

Things have been kinda exhausting lately. I'm alive and glad and happy to have finally found a functioning relationship with actual potential on the one hand. On the other, my sister is going through difficult time facing emotional instability and combating matters of the past that started getting back on her, which we try to solve by family therapy that might or might not help. Quarantine hampered daily schedules of most of us, and personally, I haven't really returned to the standard full-time student/employee schedule ever since the first surgery year and a half ago. Until now.

Well, it is never that simple, is it\?! Alarm clock at 7:47, shower if I force myself out of bet before 8am, sleepy walk to the bus stop 300 meters away. 40 minutes of struggling for oxygen through the obligatory face mask while on the way to work. Asthma attacks are also a thing, some mornings.

Once at work, I have coffee, sometimes one, sometimes four. I try to be nice to my colleagues but spend most time fixing data sync issues on the currently deficient BI platform, quietly complaining and getting cranky over it. That might change. Or not.

At around 5:30, I pack my stuff and march back to the subway, feeling sorry for the planet, the things we make and abuse, the people who are poor, the people living in hunger, and the sun, because all of these are temporary.

Playing Sudoku on the way makes things a little better. A thing to focus on, historical timing statistics providing positive feedback loop with progressive improvement. But then, it is a bit too hot on the bus and I just can't focus enough, so I just flick through some memes and news articles feeling dizzy.

Once home, I start eating whatever I find, because eating out is just uneconomical and breakfast is out of question after my nightly sleepeating journeys to the kitchen. I have a chat with other family members when they are present, sometimes pour myself creamy liqueur over cube of ice, and climb upstairs.

And there it begins. Me time. Massive office desk, four screens, RGB lighting, ambient atmosphere, air conditioning, scented candle, posters on the wall, king-size bed, and nothing else. Sometimes I use it to call my girl for a bit, sometimes I just browse the web. But most of the time, I just sit down, put my headphones on, grab the mouse or X-Box controller, and play.

With or without a partner, online or offline, grinding or living the story, gaming has always helped me take my mind off things and use my brain in a world that I was actually able to influence. Gaming gave me opportunities to not only learn factual information but also understand the process of improving at something, read between the lines, know when to make a decision and when to just follow through, listen to others while forming a strategy, listen to some great music, and most of all, see and evaluate trade-offs.

Like most of members of the community who are my age, I started with handheld Tetris. (Yes, the one in the picture.) Then, there was doom when I was staying home alone as a kid, Duke Nukem 3D and one fantasy platformer I don't remember the name of, when an older kid from the neighbourhood (it was supposed to be his mother, really,) was babysitting me. When my oldest sister, there was Blood 2. Jazz Jackrabbit, StarCraft and Operation Flashpoint came around when I was failing to blend in at a new school.

At the time things were okay, in spite of the ridicule from my classmates, I had the first two of the EA Harry Potter series, Ford Racing 2 (which I got from a box of cereal) and things like Soldat. Entering grammar school, before it all started tilting hard, ice hockey and NHL 07 (my first modding experience,) RTL Winter Sports, and Diamond mine helped me make two real friends, while World of Warcraft enabled me to stay in touch with others and improve my english. Sims 2 came out when I needed it the most but they didn't stay for long.

In the darkest times, Trackmania Nations Forever helped me build virtual relationships and the illegal copy of GTA San Andreas a friend of mine brought over let me stay sane. Then there were the parties of Counter Strike (which I sucked at) at the boarding school helped me keep in touch with people in spite of not actually being liked.

My first own laptop and the desire to game on it helped me make another friend, whom I acknowledge too little nowadays, but who helped me a lot in transition into the society. We played everything we were able to get our hands on that the AMD Turion x64 with Radeon HD3200 were able to pull off. Need for Speed Underground 2 all the new 3D platformers were the thing then.

With my first dedicated graphics card laptop, I spent most time with Sims 3, webdesign, and ironically also the 1999 Unreal Tournament. The latter was a big life-saver when all my computers had given in the next year, because I got my hands on a Pentium II system with an unidentifiable graphics controller. And it ran at stable 16 FPS!!!

A decent hardware upgrade from that allowed me to play Burnout Paradise, a snowboading simulator, FlatOut2 and other awesome games. That was when things at home were bad and things at school were good. I liked staying over for weekends, talk to people, and study, too. Well, that didn't last long either. I got burned in my first romantic relationship and got expelled from the school in three steps.

Another dark period with little to no gaming followed. Sometimes I would have a chance to play with my classmates at a cyber café, but I had to start working, so there was little time. When there was some, I would choose World of Tanks over homework and made a return to World of Warcraft, on a private server, this time.

Toward graduation, when I got mauled by a second breakup with the same girl, it was the third of Harry Potter series and Sims 3 that helped a lot. First year of university meant better computer, opportunity of independent time-management, more World of Warcraft, some NHL09, Heartstone, lot of graphics design work and some mathematics.  

My roommate was a jerk and the relationship I managed to build toward Christmas wasn't to last in romantic sense, because of the distance. I volunteered at sports events, applied to a university in the UK, watched plenty of movies, was getting fat, and when there was a chance, I enjoyed Super Hexagon, Tetris, mostly light stuff.

First year in the UK was hard. I worked in a restaurant, studied, had no time, lived in a cold house, but I was really grateful for the opportunity and went through with it. It was the nostalgia of Need for Speed Most Wanted combined with novelty of League of legends that sustained the willpower and final decision to stay.

Year later, I became ambassador of Runeterra, began to accumulate titles in my Steam library, and had a great year in general. League was a way to stay in touch with my dad, then, while story rich games slowly crawled into the longer stretches of free time I had. Portal 2, Doom 3, Audiosurf, Trackmania2 Stadium and Trackmania Turbo brought me enjoyment between lectures and writing essays back then.

Final year of university was difficult from the beginning through the end. Living with a cocaine user and DJ, I did my best to isolate, played League and League alone, slowly climbing to Silver. Moving out prematurely to seek a better accommodation helped me find a squad of gamers to stay with and my passion came back. I played X-COM, Torchlight, Shelter 2 and guess what: League!!!

In Amsterdam, things were slowly moving to shit again. And so were my gaming habits. League remained but it was generally more of a book-time. And it is only right that way. Getting the C-word diagnosis was tough and I needed a sharp change in the degree of mental stimulation. I did my best to live on and game on.

With Max Caulfield in Life is Strange, I learned that I belong among the righteous few, who actually understood the morale of the story. But it was Chloe Price, who held my hand on the way through the worst. Before the storm, was far deeper a game for me than the original, not only by diving into the core of what shaped LiS as a series, but also by the fact that I could have failed at living long enough to see it end.

On my way to recovery, I moved on to the Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit, Tomb Raider, Rise of the Tomb Raider, Yoku's Island Express, Spyro Reignited Trilogy, Horizon Chase and Zoo Tycoon 2018. Things have been hard then, especially when I woke up to see my stoma bag detached from my stomach and myself covered in excretions all over. That's probably when I needed them the most and when they were truly there to guide me, embrace me, and calm me down.

CoViD Quarantine that came not long afterwards was bearable thanks to the combination of LoL, GRID 2 that made me good at racing games, and GRID Autosport, which is even more challenging.

And coming back to this very day, I am enormously glad that I still have what to choose from and that there are my former classmates happy to have me join them playing Valorant any evening, only enhancing the experience of my comfort and the whole me time. Except I have to whine less about getting killed all the time and talk slightly less loudly while planning that invasion of site C.

And how cool is that Dan Bull released a song on this exact topic. It is by far not the only or even the most significant on the list of things that did, yet it still holds holds there.

And that is how gaming saved my life.

[pyrokinesis]

Current comics Dick Grayson comes into room, singing "Where is my baby~," and you expect him to say that to Haley, Damian, maybe even his partner, but no,

Jason Todd, wearing the original discowing suit comes in the room, holding a mug of tea and looking as annoyed as expected, "Shut up Dickie, I look like a Saturday Night Fever promotional poster,"

Dick pouts, which looks weird on someone as adult as him, and acts as if he's been hit in his heart, "You promised!"

Jason fixes fabric bothering him on his left hip, "I lost a bet and I still can't believe you wore this thing for years, what fabric is this, I washed it and it still feels like I'm wearing fabric soaked in mosquito toxin, I'm gonna have a rash by tomorrow morning,"

Dick approaches Jason, slapping his hand and fixing the suit himself, "It's polyester and some other poly-fabric B and I used before we switched to kevlar,"

Jason looks ready to murder, and some of his tea spills on the floor, "You're clothing me in the hell-damned polyester older than Regan and his atrocities,"

and oh, no, that's unacceptable, especially since,

Jason accusingly points at Dick's outfit, original adult Robin suit, in all of its headlights glory, "You're wearing a preserved leather onesie, but I'm supposed to be accept decades old polyester disco suit," absolutely unfair,

"TT," comes the sound from another room, and Damian al Ghul Wayne and Jon Kent appear, both wearing obviously matching outfits,

Dick wipes a nonexistent tear, "Sherlock and Watson, really Dami? I thought you guys will be Superman and Batman,"

Damian adjusts his hat, glacing at Jon for a moment before returning his gaze to his brother, "Now, why would we do that, Richard? Hmmmm, TT,"

Jon procures a thick notebook from one of his pockets, and a fountain pen, and starts writing in it, "We thought it'd be too obvious, and we couldn't agree on any another matching characters,"

Jason yearningly stares at the high quality fountain pen, then looks at his youngest brother and his best friend, "I will gift you children a batmobile if any of you two wears this ugly polyester suit,"

"I want batmobile as a Halloween present," everyone familiar voice says, and Stephanie Brown appears, wearing short brown wig and also familiar suit, followed by Kara Zor-El, Cassandra Cain, and Cassie Sandsmark, all wearing also similiar suits as Stephanie,

Jason almost starts crying as soon as he sees the quartet, "You four are not going as Lanterns, please tell me B's seen you,"

Cassandra smirks, leaning on Kara, "Of course he hasn't, but his reaction is crutial,"

Damian stares at Stephanie's wig, "I suppose you're going as Jordan, and you three are Gardner, Scott, and you... are going as Red Lantern, Cassandra,"

Cass points at Kara, then picks at her own blonde wig, "I asked her and she gave me permission to go as Red Lantern version of her,"

Dick mutters under his breath, "Girls, man,"

Jason tries scratch his hip, but gets his hand slapped again by his older brother, "Can you not ruin my precious first Nightwing uniform for one second,"

Cassie stares at Jason in the original Nightwing suit, and says, "that thing looks like the cheapest fabric ever, Dick, how did you even fight in this without ripping it in pieces,"

Jason laughs, "I love how we're successfully on our way to make a grown man in his thirties cry,"

Dick sighs, checking hidden pockets of his old costume, for what is to find out, "It takes more than making fun of my old suit to make me cry, I think you have mistaken me for someone else here," he says while not so subtly glancing at the man wearing his old suit,

Jason just ignores him, making a face while sipping his tea, "This is cold, ew,"

Damian looks around the room, "Where are Drake and Duke?"

Cassie laughs, "Tim is with Bernard, Kon, and Bart, they're going as the original Ghostbusters after I said I'm not doing Seinfeld with them," and there's something to be said about her orange wig,

Jon looks away from his little notebook, biting the cap of the fountain pen, and definitely not noticing disgusting looks from Cass, Jason, and Damian, "You four could've gone as The Wizard of OZ characters,"

"Yeah and then we would've have to see Tim as a Dorothy, and I don't think he can pull off such look," Jason mentions, still holding his tea and pointedly staring at the Lantern quartet, ignoring youngest Superfamily member in the room, "And also, Duke's doing several parties tonight, he'll come back after his reunion with the We Are Robin crew, I think he managed to get matching costumes with Birds of Prey or something,"

Dick tears his gaze away from his costume, "Why do you know that?"

Infamous Red Hood finishes his cold tea, putting the mug on Damian's head, who doesn't even flinch, "Because I'm Red Hood, why do you not know? Also get this shit off me before I turn it into plastic cup,"

"Jason, what are you wearing?"

Kate Kane, dressed as a flapper, is here, and the show can begin.

[blowflyfag]

Stevie Richards x Male Reader

 I got silly and wrote this. I would suggest listening to  Fly by Veruca Salt, as well as Twinstar and Sleeping where I want. They're all by Veruca Salt. I just wanted to write a little vibey fic so I hope you like it :)

TW for this fic include : Implied Drug use, Alcohol Consumption, very brief mention of vomit as well as frequent injury mention 

Stevie had that dog kind of love. Unwavering no matter what. Happy to just simply be acknowledged and be in the presence of someone he liked. You were half worried about whatever happened possibly to get him to act like this. But in another way… you were selfish and wanted to drown yourself in that unwavering love. That’s how you found yourself now. Cramped in the back of your van clung to the man as you kept your face buried in his shoulder.

 The match you had tonight had been brutal. Your shoulder had been cut pretty gnarly off of some barbed wire.. you agreed to the match of course. You were a sick thrill junkie. A piece of shit who loved the cheering crowd and damnit you’d do anything to please their sadomasochistic desire. They wanted blood. And you’d bleed for them. 

Though it had been patched up hours earlier by the barely trained medical staff, you wanted to just rush out of the stadium so you could come down in your own space. Your pride and joy. Your van. You didn’t believe in flying or owning your own place. Your van had everything you needed. Besides there were enough rest stops and truck stops for you to stay clean enough. It wasn’t like you were getting laid often… so after a quick vomit from the pain in the bathroom you staggered outside to your little vehicle heaven. You stopped. Staring at the lanky form leaning against it. A toothy smile shot towards you. 

“Hey (y/n)!”You felt dread rise up your spine. Looking around quickly to make sure no one in that damn flock was around. There wasn’t a camera crew ready to catch you getting a trash can smashed over your head. “Just me dude.” He snickered as he pushed himself off of your van. Patting it. “I guessed this one was yours! Pretty lucky guess huh?” He began and you looked around once more before humming in acknowledgement.

“What gave it away huh?” You asked as you pulled out a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. Almost on instinct Stevie pulled out a lighter from his. “Daisy Dukes.” That’s what you’d joke with others and call those ugly shorts. You smiled as you leaned close to catch the flicking light.

“Well. Looking through the window and seeing the bed in there I kinda assumed. Unless this is just some hobo’s van.” 

“Nah. It’s my hobo van.” You said as you opened the back doors to climb in. Flickering on a power outlet that caused lights to flicker to life that had Stevie looking over in awe. A lava lamp slowly began to bubble and Christmas lights shined on the ceiling. 

“Oh woah! Didn’t know you could get that all hooked up!” He said as he quickly crawled in after you. Your eyes widening at the sudden new person in your home. Your van was decked for your tastes. Stuck to the walls were a myriad of polaroids of old friends, odd things you had seen, clouds of weed smoke being blown by pretty girls. A few band posters were stuck as well. Some clothes were haphazardly thrown around the floor. You quickly moved to kick a pair of briefs to the side. What seperated the driving console from the back you made your room was a curtain of beads that clacked together with every small bump into them. Stevie looked around, finding the bed and placing himself down on it with a smile. “Nice digs man!” You nodded as you grabbed a nearby ashtray to flick some of the cigarette ash into it. 

“I try.” You offered before slumping down onto a small beanbag chair that was near the back doors, you reached with your good arm to close the two before looking to Stevie who was already looking over your polaroids and flicking through your cd case. “So.” You started again after a bit of silence, filling only with the small crackling fire as you inhaled cigarette smoke. “Raven going to come by and kick my shit in or something?” You asked with a brow raise and Stevie looked over. 

“Huh? No no! I just wanted to see you man you got fucked up tonight… How's your shoulder?” You were a bit confused.. you half expected the flock to take advantage of your weak state.. I mean. You had no issues with them. At least you thought you didn’t. But that Raven guy made your stomach churn and you knew he wasn’t someone to be messed with. 

“Fucking hurts like shit.” You admitted as you set the cigarette down in the ashtray. Adding the butts of old half smoked cigarettes and a joint that still had at least one decent hit left for it. “You wanna see?” You asked and Stevie gave a quick nod. That was often at ECW. Admiring an ogling at wounds revived during the match. As you slipped off your jacket and shirt you heard Stevie hiss. 

“Jesus dude….”

“Yeah. 6 stitches.” You said before sighing as you walked over to a cooler stuffed into the corner. “Want a drink?” You offered. Stevie held his hands out as you tossed a can of cheap beer towards him before you grabbed your own and plopped yourself back down next to him. You both cracked the cans in unison, you looked over to Stevie with a fond smile as you held your can towards his. A small clink that caused a bit of foam to seep over the top before you took a long swig before setting it down on the floor as you leaned back against the wall. Hissing as your shoulder laid against the wall. 

“Shit dude.. maybe you should like. Lay on your stomach or something.” 

“Don’t wanna take up all the bed man. That just makes me a bad host don’t you think?” 

Stevie rolled his eyes as he set his own beer down. “Just lay down dude.” He got up and you huffed. Rolling your eyes as you shifted to just lay on your stomach instead. Admittedly it felt better. You reached to hold a pillow close to your face and Stevie smiled as he moved to lay next to you… luckily enough the bed was big enough for the two of you. You looked over to meet his gaze.

 “We’re just gonna lay here. Next to each other in silence?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with that man?”

“Little gay don’t you think?”

Stevie rolled his eyes again, “You think too much you know that?” He said as he pushed past the curtain of beads. You quirked your brow as you heard shuffling before music slowly lulled into the van. You had left a Veruca Salt CD in the player.  American Thighs lulling you into a calmness with the track Fly. Or it could be the beer bubbling inside your stomach, or the general exhaustion from the whole night. You looked to the curtain of beads as they clacked with Stevie coming through them again. “That better?” He asked as he went to lay back down. 

“Much better.” You snickered as you held your hand out expectantly towards him. He handed you the can as you took another large gulp of it before handing it back. Enjoying the small brush of fingertips overlapping for only a moment. You looked over to Stevie who was simply looking over your Polaroids again.

“You’ve done a lot huh?” He asked and you shrugged. 

“I’ve just been a bunch of different places, you know? This wrestling shit is just something else for me to do.. besides it gives me an excuse to travel more.” You smiled to Stevie. “You should ride with me sometime. It’s fun. I promise. We might just have to share the bed.” You snickered and Stevie smiled back. That toothy smile that had your heart doing a double take almost. 

“Aren’t we already doing that?”

“I guess we are…”

One can in and you were getting restless laying on your stomach. It didn’t feel right anymore. Felt all wrong and sitting up felt worse. You sighed as you slowly pushed yourself up. “Hey hey hey. Take it easy man! Jeez you’re gonna rip your stitching like that.” He said as he sat up as well as he looked over the tired look on your face. “Jeez man…” he began and you huffed. 

“It’s late Stevie… you should get outta here or something.” You began and Stevie shook his head. 

“No way man! What if you rip your stitches in your sleep or somethin. I’m staying the night at least!” He proclaimed and you raised a brow.. was this whole thing some ploy from him to get him to stay the night..? I mean could you blame him? Your van was cooler than any damn motel room could ever be. “What’s the issue huh..? Do you not usually sleep on your stomach?”

You shook your head. Most nights your back would be pressed right up against the wall. But of course with your shoulder that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Stevie seemed to ponder for a minute before smiling as he laid down and held his arms open. “Cmon dude. We’re bros no shame in it.” He said and you quirked a brow. 

“You’re gonna fucking cuddle me?”

“No! No! Just. Lay on me dude. It’ll be more comfortable.” He said with an eye roll.

You hesitated before you shifted back to laying on your stomach. However in an odd way. Stevie’s body close to yours added a new level of comfort that had you melding under the touch in a way. Stevie snickered as he saw the relaxed expression on your face. “See. Fucking told you dude.” 

“Just shut up Richards…” you began, hearing him giggle after you spoke.. you wouldn’t admit it now. Maybe you’d never admit it. But it was the best sleep you had that night. The best sleep in a while you had. The best sleep of your life had been with 6 stitches in your shoulder, music slowly playing from your radio, and yourself held close to Stevie Richards, your face buried into the nape of his neck.